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Froiitiapieri- 


D     O     E     A. 


BY 


JULIA    KAYANAGH, 

AUTHOR    OF 

''NATHALIE,"    "ADELE;"    ''QUEEN    MAB,"    ETC.,  ETC. 


3;nu$t»|ated  bi}  (^aston  !tfay. 


THREE   VOLUMES    COMPLETE  IN  ONE. 


NEW  YORK: 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY, 

90,  92,  &    94  GRAND  STREET. 
1  8GS. 


DORA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  autumn  wind  swept  with  a  long  wail 
over  the  broad  bay  of  Dublin,  then  went  and 
died,  still  moaning,  and  lamenting,  amongst 
the  distant  mountains.  In  its  occasional  in- 
tervals of  silence,  gusts  of  rain  came  and  beat 
against  the  window-panes  with  a  pitiful,  im- 
patient sound,  as  if  claiming  to  be  heard,  till 
the  clamorous  wind  rose  again  and  drowned 
every  voice  save  its  own  tempestuous  roar. 
Dusk  was  gathering  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's  bare 
parlor,  and  very  chill  and  cheerless  as  well  as 
bare  it  would  have  looked  on  this  evening,  if 
Dora  Courtenay  had  not  been  standing  by  the 
window  with  her  work  hanging  loosely  in  her 
hand,  and  her  eyes  fastened  on  the  prospect  of 
sea  and  mist  and  cloudy  mountains,  which  was 
all  that  she  could  see  through  the  slanting  rain. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  parlor  was,  as  we  said,  a 
very  bare  one.  The  chairs,  the  table,  the 
black  hearth,  the  low  ceiling,  sadly  in  need  of 
whitewash,  the  dull  grey  paper  on  the  walls, 
gave  it  a  desolate  look :  but  you  forgot  that 
when  you  saw  Dora.  No  room  with  a  sun- 
beam, or  a  Titian,  or  a  Giorgione  in  it  would 
seem  cold  and  desolate  to  you  were  it  a  garret ; 
and  no  room  in  which  this  girl  appeared  could 
fail  being  brightened  by  her  gay  young  pres- 
ence. She  was  not  beautiful,  she  was  not 
handsome,  she  was  not  even  very  pretty — but 
she  was  bright,  wonderfully  bright.  If  tlicre 
were  such  a  tiling  as  brown  gold,  Dora's  hair 


might  be  said  to  be  of  that  color.  If  rosea 
ever  bloomed  on  a  maiden's  cheek,  they  were 
to  be  found  on  hers.  If  joy  ever  beamed  in 
mortal  eyes,  it  surely  shone  in  Dora's.  When 
you  looked  at  her  you  forgot  her  half  shabby 
black  dress,  her  mother's  cold  parlor — you 
forgot  even  that  Dora  was  young,  and  had  a 
charming  figure — you  forgot  all  save  the  shin- 
ing hair  and  the  happy  eyes,  and  the  genial 
smile  and  the  young  warm  voice  which  matched 
with  them  so  well;  and  these  you  remembered 
for  evermore. 

"  I  can't  stand  this,  you  know,"  suddenly 
said  Dora,  flinging  down  her  work  ;  "  I  must 
see  if  Paul  is  coming." 

Jlrs.  Courtenay,  who  was  gently  foiling 
asleep  in  her  arm-chair,  awoke  with  a  start : 
but  before  her  remonstrative,  "  Don't  get  wet," 
was  fairly  uttered,  the  bright  head  and  the 
brighter  face  of  Dora  had  passed  through  the 
parlor  door,  and  the  parlor  itself  looked  very 
much  like  a  cellar  whence  a  sunbeam  has  de- 
parted. 

"  She  is  so  quick,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  still 
amazed  and  a  little  plaintive.  "  I  always  do 
fed  for  hens  who  hatch  ducks'  eggs." 

Tills  remark  was  directed  to  her  sister-in- 
law,  Mrs.  Luan.  Very  different  of  aspect  were 
these  two  ladies.  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  a  charm- 
ing lady  of  sixtv.  She  had  the  wliitest  hair, 
the  mildest  blue  eyes,  the  plcasantcst  smile, 
and  the  softest  plump  hands  a  lady  of  si.'cty 
ever  had.     She  was  French  by  Iiirth  and  Irish 


DORA. 


by  marriage ;  and  she  spoke  English  with  a 
pretty  Freuch  accent,  and  French  with  an 
equally  pretty  English  accent ;  and  was  inno- 
cent and  delightful  in  either  language. 

Mrs.  Luan,  her  late  husband's  sister,  was  a 
square,  low-built  woman.  She  had  a  dull,  com- 
monplace face,  dingy  in  color,  a  dull  brown  eye 
with  a  heavy  lid,  a  low  narrow  forehead  and  a 
thick  indistinct  utterance.  Nature  had  been 
very  niggardly  to  this  lady,  and  Fortune  had 
been  very  stingy  to  both  sisters-in-law.  The 
little  cottage  in  which  they  resided  was  one  of 
the  plainest  near  Dublin  ;  their  cook  and  maid- 
of-all-work  was  a  diminutive  girl  of  thirteen 
called  Peggy,  their  furniture  would  not  have 
fetched  twenty  pounds  at  an  auction.  They 
dressed  very  simply,  made  fires  at  the  latest 
extremity,  and,  when  they  were  alone,  never 
burned  more  than  one  tallow  candle. 

They  were  widows,  and  we  dare  not  say  how 
slender  was  their  joint  income.  Mrs.  Luan 
had  a  son  whom  she  had  penuriously  brought 
up  to  his  present  position  of  medical  student, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay's  step-son  Paul  was  an  em- 
bryo barrister ;  and  then  there  was  Dora  to 
dress  and  educate.  How  all  this  was  done, 
nor  yet  how  far  it  was  done,  was  one  of  the 
miracles  which  mothers  daily  accomplish, 
whilst  the  world  looks  on,  and  takes  it  all  as  a 
matter  of  course. 

Brightness  of  intellect  was  not  Mrs.  Luan's 
gift.  She  took  time  to  ponder  over  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  proposition  concerning  hens  and 
ducks'  eggs,  then  she  said  in  her  thick,  hesi- 
tating voice, 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

After  having  uttered  this  profound  and  ori- 
ginal remark,  she  seemed  startled  at  her  own 
daring,  and  relapsed  into  sudden  silence. 

Mrs.  Courtcnay  sighed,  turned  up  her  eyes, 
expanded  her  hands,  and  shook  her  head  hope- 
lessly. 

"  It's  no  use  arguing  with  her,  poor  soul," 
she  said,  half  aloud.     "  She's  so — you  know." 


This  speech  Mrs.  Luan  so  far  vmderslood, 
that  she  made  no  comment  upon  it.  She  took 
her  intellectual  inferiority,  as  she  took  her 
poverty  and  her  plainness,  for  granted.  So 
she  remained  very  quiet  in  her  shady  part  of 
the  room,  thinking  of  and  brooding  over  her 
life,  after  her  own  fashion. 

"  I  should  like  a  light,  Mrs.  Luan,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

Mrs.  Luan  replied  calmly, 

"Candles  are  a  halfpenny  dearer  in  the 
pound  this  week." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  sighed — nature  had  given 
her  a  liberal,  prodigal  heart — but  she  did  not 
attempt  a  remonstrance;  she  remembered, 
however,  her  youth  in  a  gay  French  home, 
where  wax  lights  were  of  no  account,  and 
where  the  saloon  mirrors  flashed  like  a  sheet 
of  light  in  their  brilliant  glow,  and  she  sighed 
again.  Mrs.  Luan  thought,  in  the  mean- 
while : 

"  We  burn  a  candle  a  night,  eight  a  week, 
Sundays  included.  Four  times  eight  thirty- 
two;  five  pounds  of  candles,  and  two  over 
every  month  ;  that's  more  than  twopence  half- 
penny a  month  dearer  than  last  autumn.  "We 
must  light  the  candle  later." 

And  made  happy  by  this  mental  calcula- 
tion, she  sat  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap, 
content  to  remain  thus,  spite  the  increasing 
darkness,  for  the  sake  of  saving  an  inch  of 
tallow. 

"  That  child  will  be  quite  wet,"  said  Mrs, 
Courtenay,  plaintively,  after  another  while; 
"you  should  have  told  her  not  to  go,  Mrs. 
Luan." 

Mrs.  Luan  did  not  answer,  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  that  too.  She  was  House  of  Com- 
mons in  this  little  household,  perhaps  because, 
thanks  to  her  power  of  management,  she  held 
the  strings  of  the  purse.  Mrs.  Courtenay,  her 
constitutional  sovereign,  snubbed  and  coaxed 
her  by  turns,  and  blamed  her  not  ill-natured- 
ly, but  as  a  matter  of  course,  for  everything ; 


DORA  AND  HER  BROTHER  PAUL, 


Dora,  her  prime  minister,  tried  every  now  and 
then  to  carry  it  with  a  high  hand ;  and  her 
son  John,  and  her  nephew  Paul,  twitted  and 
flouted  her  Uke  saucy  young  members,  and 
were  as  helpless  as  any  brilliant  minority  at 
the  mercy  of  a  stubborn  majority  ever  will  be. 
Mrs.  Luan  was  impenetrable  to  blame,  and 
coaxing,  and  ridicule.  She  was  thick-skinned  ; 
made  armor-proof  against  all  such  shafts  by 
provident  Nature.  With  perfect  equanimity 
she  now  heard  herself  blamed  for  Dora's  sin, 
and  after  awhile  she  even  said,  very  calmly : 

"  How  hard  it  is  raining  ! " 

"  Just  like  her !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
with  gentle  exasperation.  "  She  lets  the  child 
go  out,  and  then  she  says,  '  How  hard  it  is 
raining.'  You  would  not  let  John  go,  Mrs. 
Luan." 

Now  Mrs.  Luan,  though  patient,  was,  like 
many  a  patient  animal,  endowed  with  a  weapon 
of  defence.  This  was  her  voice ;  a  heavy 
buzzing,  indistinct  voice,  which  paused,  and 
stammered,  and  hesitated,  till  the  conquered 
listener  would  buy  silence  at  any  price.  So, 
whenever  she  was  driven  into  a  corner,  she 
roused  herself,  and  talked  her  enemy  down. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  rain,"  she 
began,  in  her  buzzing  fashion. 

"  Don't,"  entreated  Mrs.  Courtenay,  becom- 
ing alarmed. 

But  when  Mrs.  Luan  had  begun  buzzing, 
who  could  stop  her  ?  Mrs.  Courtenay,  folding 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  let  Mrs.  Luan  go  on. 
This  lady  from  the  rain  diverged  into  her  hus- 
band's ^  last  illness ;  then,  having  buzzed 
through  that,  she  made  a  jDleasant  diversion 
into  the  world  of  fancy  by  wondering  how 
people  felt  when  they  were  dead.  Thence 
she  went  off  to  butcher's  meat,  and  having 
worried  her  lively  little  sister-in-law  for  ten 
minutes,  she  kindly  dropped  her,  much  the 
worse  for  the  infliction,  and  rolled  herself  back 
into  her  habitual  citadel  of  silence,  feeling, 
with  the  same  instinct  which  had  suggested 


her  system  of  defence,  that  she  was  safe  there 
for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Li  the  meanwhile,  Dora  was  standing  in  a 
dilapidated  summer-house  at  the  end  of  the 
garden,  watching  for  her  brother's  return. 
The  cottage  rented  by  Mrs.  Courtenay  stood 
on  a  narrow  promontory  of  heath,  with  a  road 

on  either  side.      The  front  door  faced  the 

f 

Dublin  road,  and  the  apex  of  the  triangular 
garden  gave  egress  on  another  road,  long  and 
winding,  which  looked  as  if  it  passed  forever 
through  heath  and  mountain,  but  which  in 
reality  was  within  five  minutes  of  the  railway 
station.  With  a  shawl  around  her,  and  stand- 
ing within  the  shelter  of  the  summer-house, 
Dora,  whose  look  could  command  the  whole 
sweep  of  the  road  through  the  grated  door, 
watched  and  waited.  But  the  wind  moaned, 
the  rain  drifted  gustily,  the  hour  at  which  the 
train  was  due  went  by,  and  still  Paul  came 
not.  Night  darkened  around  tlie  mountains, 
the  rain  ceased,  the  wind  cleared  away  a  few 
clouds  from  the  sky,  and  here  and  there  a 
star  glimmered,  and  still  the  grey  road  showed 
no  tall  figure  approaching,  and  echoed  to  no 
young  firm  step.  Had  anything  happened  to 
him  ?  Had  there  been  a  railway  collision  ? 
Had  he  been  waylaid  and  murdered?  But 
not  in  vain  had  Dora  bright  hair,  and  happy 
eyes,  and  a  genial  smile.  These  gloomy,  mor- 
bid fancies  only  passed  athwart  her  mind  like 
clouds  across  a  clear  sky.  She  shook  her 
head  defiantly  at  them,  and  bade  them  begone. 
"  I  will  not  believe,  you,"  she  told  them. 
"  Paul  has  gone,  like  the  knight  or  the  prince 
in  the  fairy  tale,  to  the  dangerous  castle  or 
the  perilous  wood,  and,  like  him,  he  will  re- 
turn triumphant.  There  is  no  trial  Paul  can- 
not overcome  ;  there  is  no  heart  Paul  cannot 
win.  He  was  made  to  prevail  and  be  king. 
Since  he  stays  so  long,  'tis  sure  proof  of  vic- 
tory, and  if  he  comes  by  the  night-train,  why, 
I  .shall  let  him  in,  and  none  shall  be  the 
wiser." 


DORA. 


The  wind  might  blow,  the  raiu  might  fall — 
Dora,  whilst  she  had  such  thoughts,  could  not 
help  feeling  happy.  She  was  ambitious,  not 
for  herself,  but  foi"  her  brother.  She  could  sit 
and  di-eam  about  him,  with  the  tender  folly 
of  the  young,  and  never  feel  that  it  was  folly. 
There  was  no  success  Paul  was  not  to  achieve, 
no  destiny  was  loo  great  for  Paul,  and  thus 
little  by  little  it  came  to  pass  that  he  was  the 
hero  of  his  sister's  hfe. 

That  life  had  been  such  as  most  girls  lead  ; 
a  still,  narrow  path,  with  a  boundless  world 
around  it,  dangerously  alluring.  Such  as  it 
was,  it  contented  her.  She  was  satisfied  with 
the  seclusion  which  her  poverty  commanded, 
with  the  society  of  her  friends,  with  studies 
which  to  her  were  no  pastimes,  but  serious 
pursuits,  and  with  such  relaxations  as  an  old 
cracked  spinet  and  her  flowers  afforded.  All 
this  sufficed  her,  for  she  had  Paul — Paul  who 
was  to  be  so  great  a  man,  the  honor  and  the 
stay  of  his  family.  When  a  young  girl  has 
such  a  thought  as  this,  it  matters  little  what 
dresses  she  wears,  or  what  sort  of  a  house  she 
lives  in.  She  has  an  enchanted  tower,  whence 
she  views  the  nether  world  with  calm  indiffer- 
ence. Who  dare  pity,  and  who  would  not 
envy  her,  till  truth  comes  and  knocks  at  the 
door,  claiming  admittance  in  a  voice  that  will 
not  be  denied  ? 


OKAPTER  n. 

But  Paul's  journey  was  a  secret  as  yet,  so, 
with  another  look  up  the  road,  Dora  went 
back  to  the  cottage  through  the  wet  garden. 
As  she  reached  the  parlor  she  heard  the  voice 
of  her  cousin,  John  Luan,  talking  within.  At 
once  she  broke  in,  bright  and  joyous. 

"  Oh,  you  faithless  John,  where  have  you 
been  till  this  hour  V  "  she  cried.  "  Tell  me 
directly." 

A  very  good-looking  young  man,  with  a 
good-natured  face,  very  like  Dora's  in  all  save 


its  brightness,  turned  round  on  hearing  this 
imperious  mandate,  and  looked  at  his  cousin 
with  an  unmistakable  adorer  look.  "  Slave  " 
was  stamped  on  his  aspect,  and  no  less  legibly 
was  "queen  "  written  on  Dora's. 

"  I  have  been  dissecting,"  he  began. 

"  Don't,  John,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
shivering. 

"Bless  you,  mamma,"  remarked  Dora, 
coolly,  "John  would  dissect  us  all  if  he  had  us." 

John  had  never  much  to  say  for  himself, 
but  when  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  this  bright- 
haired  tormentor  he  became  helpless. 

"  Now,  Dora,  you  know  I  can't,"  he  said. 

"  Can't  dissect  ? "  she  suggested.  "  Then 
give  up  your  profession,  and  let  there  be  an 
end  of  it,"  she  kindly  added. 

A  sigh,  verging  on  a  groan,  expressed  John's 
mental  sufferings. 

"Take  pattern  on  Paul,"  she  resumed. 
"He  means  to  be  Grattan,  or  Chatham,  or 
Demosthenes.  Why,  don't  you  mean  to  be 
something  ?  Now,  mamma,  please  not  to  in- 
terfere. I  want  to  make  something  of  John, 
but  if  I  am  interfered  with  how  can  I  ?  " 

John  groaned  again,  yet  did  not  seem  to  be 
very  miserable. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  would  dissect  me,"  said 
Dora,  shaking  her  bright  head ;  "  but  you  shall 
not  have  the  chance,  you  little  wretch  ! " 

Dora  Courtenay  had  a  graceful  young  figure, 
but  she  was  not  a  fine  woman,  and  John  Luan 
was  a  remarkably  fine  young  man.  Yet  little 
wretch  she  had  called  him  since  they  were 
children,  and  it  was  the  only  part  of  her  teaz- 
ing  which  Mrs.  Luan  could  never  endure.  She 
now  showed  such  miequivocal  symptoms  of 
buzzing,  that  Dora,  much  alarmed,  rose  and 
said  quickly, 

"  I  meant  a  big  wretch,  aunt.  And  now  let 
us  have  tea,  since  Paul  is  not  coming." 

To  make  tea  was  Dora's  duty.  She  began 
the  process  by  peremptorily  ordering  John 
Luan  to  cut  some  bread  and  butter,  kindly 


MRS.   LUAN  AND  HER  SON. 


adding  an  admonition  concerning  the  wisdom 
of  pinning  a  cloth  bib-wise  before  him,  and  not 
buttering  his  coat  instead  of  the  bread ;  after 
whicli,  the  diminutive  servant  having  brought 
up  the  tray,  Dora  sat  behind  an  old-fashioned 
tea-urn,  and  looked  through  the  curling 
wreaths  of  steam,  like  a  bright  young  Hebe, 
with  the  ethereal  vapors  of  Olympus  around 
her.  It  was  a  very  plain  meal.  The  tea  was 
three  shillings  a  pound,  the  butter  was  Irish 
butter,  and  therefore  could  not  be  bad,  but 
had  it  come  from  a  cheese  country,  John  Luan 
would  have  found  it  delicious,  and  all  China 
could  not  have  matched  the  flavor  of  that  mild 
Congou. 

He  sat  and  ate  through  a  plateful  of  bread 
and  butter,  and  drank  through  seven  cups  of 
tea — looking  all  the  time  at  that  bright  girl 
before  him,  and  meekly  enduring  such  shafts 
as  it  pleased  her  saucy  little  tongue  to  pierce 
him  with. 

Dora  could  not  help  being  aware  of  her 
cousin's  intellectual  inferiority,  and  she  was 
not  so  perfect  as  not  to  take  advantage  of  it 
now  and  then.  To  make  up  for  this,  indeed, 
she  gifted  him,  like  a  kind  fairy,  with  some 
imaginary  graces.  He  was  good-natured,  she 
made  him  high-hearted;  he  was  careless  of 
danger,  she  made  him  brave ;  but  unluckily 
she  forgot  to  feel  more  than  a  moderate  regard 
for  the  owner  of  these  virtues.  The  crown- 
gift  of  her  affection  was  wanting. 

John  needed  to  use  no  such  magic  powers. 
He  had  no  imagination,  and  could  not  conceive 
another  Dora  than  the  one  he  knew.  With 
her  he  was  quite  satisfied.  He  was  in  that 
happy  stage  of  love  when  to  see  and  hear  the 
beloved  object  is  sufficient  bliss  to  the  wor- 
shipper. He  did  not  think  of  marriage.  They 
were  first  cousins,  to  begin  with,  and  were  by 
right  of  birth  supposed  impenetrable  to  love. 
Then  they  were  both  as  poor  as  Job ;  and  best 
reason  of  all,  marriage  was  not  in  the  least 
necessary  to  John's  happmess.     To  see  Dora 


and  look  at  her  bright  face,  to  hear  Dora  and 
be  worried  by  her,  to  obey  Dora  and  cut  bread 
and  butter,  or  do  any  humble  office  for  the 
pleasure  of  that  haughty  little  sovereign,  was 
all  John  Luan  cared  for ;  and  as  be  bad  but  to 
come  to  the  cottage  to  secure  these  blessings, 
that  crown  of  all  bliss,  the  wedded,  was  not  in 
his  thoughts. 

Now  this  disinterested  adoration  had  been 
going  on  five  years — his  mother,  his  aunt, 
Paul,  Dora  herself,  looked  upon  it  as  a  matter 
of  course,  and  never  gave  it  a  second  thought. 
But  a  drop  will  overflow  the  full  cup,  and  a 
remark  which  Dora  now  darted  at  her  cousin 
across  the  table  made  him  blush  a  little,  and 
caused  Mrs,  Luan  to  look  first  bewildered, 
then  to  turn  as  pale  as  her  dingy  complexion 
would  let  her.  With  a  deeply-troubled  mien 
she  put  down  her  cup  of  tea  untasted,.theu 
looked  from  her  son  to  Dora,  and  from  Dora 
to  her  son  again.  Yet  all  Dora  had  said  was : 
"  I  wish  you  would  not  stare,  John." 

She  spoke  with  a  pretty  little  pettish  toss 
of  her  head,  but  something  in  John's  thoughts 
made  him  color  up  to  the  eyes,  and  dull  though 
she  was,  Mrs.  Luan  was  a  mother.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  saw  that  these  two  were  no  longer 
children,  and  whilst  she  was  measuring  the 
extent  of  the  calamity,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  who 
had  an  awkward  and  innocent  habit  of  thinking 
aloud,  said  with  her  pleasant  smile : 

"La!  my  dear,  John  does  not  stare;  he 
looks  at  you,  and  he  looks  because  be  admires 
you,  I  suppose." 

Which  was  the  exact  truth,  and,  precisely 
because  it  was  the  truth,  made  John  look 
foolish,  brought  a  sudden  glow  to  Dora's  face, 
and  caused  Mrs.  Luan  to  pour  the  contents  of 
her  tea-cup  into  the  sugar-basin.  This  do- 
mestic calamity  sobered  them  all  save  Mrs. 
Luan  herself.  But  long  after  the  little  excite- 
ment she  thus  caused  had  subsided,  John's 
mother,  though  outwardly  as  dull  and  as  calm 
as  ever,  was  bi'oodiug  over  her  discovery. 


8 


DORA. 


She  was  habitually  taciturn,  and  no  one  saw 
any  change  in  her  this  evening.  She  took  out 
her  patchwork,  and  proceeded  with  it  as 
usual.  This  patchwork,  which  was  literally 
hideous,  was  however  the  only  concession  to 
fancy  which  Mrs.  Luan  had  ever  made.  It 
was  to  her  what  music  is  to  some,  and  poetry 
to  others.  These  lozenges  of  faded  silks,  three 
of  which  being  put  together  formed  by  their 
different  shades  a  cube  with  a  very  light  top, 
and  a  very  dark  side  to  it,  were  the  only  re- 
laxation Mrs.  Luan's  mind  knew  or  took  from 
domestic  cares.  She  loved  them,  she  was 
proud  of  them,  she  admired  them,  and  felt 
pleased  when  they  were  praised  by  some  polite 
stranger.  She  never  read  books  or  news- 
papers ;  she  took  no  pleasure  in  news,  national 
or  local.  The  ruin  of  an  empire,  or  the  scan- 
dalous elopement  of  a  near  neighbor,  found  her 
equally  indifferent.  She  could  not  heljj  this  to 
a  certain  extent,  for  she  was  partly  bom  so ; 
but  she  had  likewise  partly  made  herself  so. 
She  had  assisted  Nature,  as  we  all  do,  and  had 
not  assisted  her  very  wisely — too  frequent  a 
case.  Thus  she  had  grown  into  a  silent,  apa- 
thetic-looking woman,  whose  concentrated 
depth  of  purpose  no  one  suspected. 

Whilst  Dora  teased  John  Luan  this  evening, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay  made  httle  innocent 
speeches,  Mrs.  Luan,  whom  no  one  heeded, 
and  who  seemed  absorbed  in  her  patchwork, 
felt  in  a  strange  tumult.  Her  thoughts,  un- 
accustomed to  wander  far,  centred  around 
this  great  fact :  "  John  is  in  love  with  her." 
Gradually  her  circle  widened.  She  saw  the 
pair  standing  at  a  church  altar,  and  John's 
ring  on  Dora's  finger.  Then,  by  a  stretch  of 
her  slow  mind,  she  imagined  a  poor  lodging 
somewhere,  and  John  and  Dora  were  in  it, 
fighting  the  great  battle  of  respectability  versus 
poverty,  with  half-a-dozen  children  around 
them.  This  was  the  real  point  at  issue,  and  it 
was  frightful.  Mrs.  Luan  liked  Dora  very 
well — as  well  as  she  could  like  a  being  who 


was  not  John.  She  felt  no  maternal  jealousy 
of  a  daughter-in-law.  It  would  not  have 
grieved  her  to  see  John  worship  Dora  with  the 
romantic  fancy  of  a  lover,  or  the  yearning  ten- 
derness of  the  fondest  husband.  Her  objection 
to  the  first  cousinship  was  of  the  slenderest 
sort.  She  was  a  woman  of  few  feelings,  as 
well  as  of  few  ideas.  But  the  cruel  truth  was 
that,  if  John  was  poor,  Dora  was  poorer.  This 
was  terrible,  and  nothing  could  overcome  it  in 
Mrs.  Luan's  mind.  The  beauty  of  Helen,  the 
mind  of  a  De  Stael,  the  heart  of  a  Mrs.  Fry, 
the  piety  of  a  saint,  would  have  left  her  alien- 
ated, indifferent,  and  cold.  Poverty  had  early 
taken  and  stamped  her,  and  the  mark  was  in- 
delible. She  woke  to  think  of  money,  as  she 
slept  to  dream  of  it,  not  exactly  for  her  own 
sake,  but  for  John's.  She  could  not  give  him 
wealth,  not  possessing  it  herself,  but  she  could 
try  and  make  him  acquire  it ;  above  all,  she 
could  try  and  not  let  him  fall  into  such  a  snare 
as  that  of  a  poor  marriage.  That  he  should 
love  Dora,  and  think  of  marrying  her,  was 
something  awful  in  her  creed.  Save  him  she 
must,  no  matter  how — no  matter  at  what  cost. 
She  had  no  plans  as  yet ;  her  mind  was  not  an 
inventive  one,  but  she  had  a  hard,  stubborn  will, 
and  on  that  she  relied,  not  without  cause.  That 
will  had  borne  her  up  all  her  life,  and  it  had 
borne  her  successfully  through  many  a  trouble. 
She  now  resolved  that  her  son  should  never 
marry  Dora  Courtenaj'.  She  was  prepared  to 
use  any  means  that  might  prevent  him  from 
doing  so,  and  being  irremediably  narrow- 
minded,  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  Dora 
might  not  be  in  love  with  John.  This  narrow- 
ness, this  inability  to  take  in  more  than  one 
idea  at  a  time,  was  the  weak  point  of  a  char- 
acter to  which  tenacity  of  purpose,  and  reck- 
lessness of  all  save  its  own  ends,  gave  danger- 
ous strength,  all  the  more  dangerous  that  it 
was  unsuspected,  and  was  accompanied  with 
marked  intellectual  inferiorit}'. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  pleasant   little  war 


ACCOUNT   OF   PAUL'S  VISIT  TO  HIS  UNCLE. 


went  on  between  Dora  and  John.  Dora  bad 
a  skein  of  wool  to  wind,  and  she  made  John 
hold  it  for  her.  Very  meek  and  awkward 
looked  this  Hercules,  whilst  his  Omphale 
stamped  her  foot,  or  shook  her  bright  head  at 
him  with  an  encouraging  "  Don't  be  stupid," 
or  a  flattering  "  Oh !  dear,  if  jou  would  but 
try  and  be  useful,  John,  and  not  make  me 
snap  my  wool  so  !  " 

"  I  do  my  best,  Dora,"  was  the  good- 
humored  reply. 

Upon  which  Dora  pensively  rejoined — 

"  I  wonder  what  your  worst  would  be  like, 
John  ?  " 

Not  a  word,  not  a  breath,  not  a  motion,  not 
a  turn  of  these  two  did  Mrs.  Luan  lose.  She 
watched  them  till  all  her  senses  were  strained 
with  the  efifort,  and  her  mind  felt  so  bewildered 
and  confused,  that  she  heard  without  heeding 
it  the  pleasant  little  chat  of  her  sister-in-law. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  doing  a  patience,  and 
though  she  knit  her  brows,  and  looked  pen- 
sively at  the  cards  spread  on  the  table,  she 
was  able  to  talk. 

"I  wish  you  had  a  new  dress,  Dora,"  she 
said  ]  "  you  could  give  this  to  Peggy." 

"  Peggy  must  wait,  mamma.  When  Paul  is 
Demosthenes,  he  will  give  me  a  velvet  robe. 
John,  do  mind  my  wool  ?  " 

John,  who  was  innocently  thinking  that 
velvet  could  scarcely  improve  Dora,  shook  his 
head  like  a  good  faithful  dog  under  the  re- 
proof, and,  dog-like,  was  mute. 

"  I  am  to  have  diamond  earrings,  too,"  re- 
sumed Dora — "  Paul  says  so — beau-tiful  dia- 
mond earrings,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  sighed  gently.  Perhaps  she 
thought  the  diamond  earrings  were  rather  far 
away.     Dora  herself  thought  so  too. 

"  I  shall  be  old  by  that  time,"  she  resumed 
— "  quite  old ;  thirty,  at  the  very  least.  John, 
you  know,  or  ought  to  know,  anatomy.  Do 
tell  me  why  people  look  old.  Why  do  faces 
get  so  very  odd,  you  know  ?     It  is  not  only 


the  skin  that  changes.  How  shall  I  look 
when  I  get  old?— so?" 

She  puckered  her  pleasant  genial  face  into 
the  most  extraordinary  wrinkles,  and  made 
her  little  mother  shiver. 

"  My  darling,  how  can  you  ?  Surely  you  do 
not  mean  to  say  that  old  people  are  so  horrid  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,"  coolly  replied  Dora,  resuming, 
her  natural  form  and  features,  "  but  I  shall  be 
so,  mamma.     Shall  I  not,  John  ?  " 

"  Don't,"  he  entreated  ;  "  don't." 

"  Don't  get  old !  Do  you  mean  to  send  me 
to  an  early  grave,  sir  ?  " 

Dora  was  rather  fond  of  shaking  her  head, 
and  shook  it  now  at  the  delinquent.  So  ve- 
hement was  the  shake  that  her  hair-pins  got 
loose,  and  a  shower  of  rich  brown  gold  locks 
fell  down  her  neck  on  her  shoulders.  Dora 
blushed  a  little,  and  John,  lost  in  admiration, 
ventured  to  stretch  out  his  hand,  and  touch 
with  worshipful  timidity  one  of  those  beau- 
tiful tresses.  Dora  pulled  it  from  him  with  a 
pleasant  laugh,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  said, 

"  Has  she  not  beautiful  hair,  John  ?  " 

And  Mrs.  Luan  put  do^Ti  her  work,  and  in 
her  blind  mad  terror  at  what  she  feared, 
would,  if  she  could,  have  destroyed  Dora  that 
moment.  Hatred  she  felt  none ;  but  it  is  not 
hate  which  works  the  most  evil,  or  inflicts  the 
deepest  wrongs. 

Dora  soberly  put  up  her  hair,  and  as  the 
evening  was  well-nigh  spent,  Peggy  was  told 
to  go  to  bed ;  and  Mrs.  Courtenay,  Mrs.  Luan, 
and  John  and  Dora  parted,  to  follow  her  ex- 
ample. 


CHAPTER  m. 

"  Paul  will  come  by  the  night  train," 
thought  Dora ;  so,  when  that  train  was  nearly 
due,  she  softly  stole  down  to  the  kitchen  to  make 
her  brother  a  hot  cup  of  tea.  Dora  was  a  clever 
girl,  and  a  clever  woman  is  expert  in  everv- 
thinpr.      It  was   no  trouble   to   her   to   light 


10 


DORA. 


a  fire,  and  prepare  her  brother's  tea,  and 
supper.  The  event  justified  her  foresight. 
The  water  was  scarcely  boihng  when  she 
heard  a  few  liglit  grains  of  sand  thrown  against 
the  parlor  window.  She  stole  up-stairs,  noise- 
lessly opened  the  cottage  door,  and  got  a  cor- 
dial kiss  in  the  dark  for  her  pains. 

"They  are  all  asleep,"  she  whispered; 
"  come  down  to  the  kitchen." 

A  pleasant  sight  to  a  weary  traveller  was 
that  which  greeted  Paul  Courtenay's  eyes  as 
he  followed  his  sister  down-staii-s.  The  fire 
was  blazing,  the  water  was  simmering  on  the 
hob,  a  frying-pan  was  hissing  on  the  fire,  the 
cloth  was  laid;  a  cottage-loaf,  butter,  and 
jug  of  ale  were  the  first  instalments  of  a  fru- 
gal meal,  where  fried  eggs  and  bacon  were  to 
play  the  most  conspicuous  part,  and  which  a 
warm  cup  of  tea,  and  that  domestic  iniquity, 
hot  buttered  toast,  were  to  crown. 

Poor  Mrs.  Luan  tossing  restlessly  on  your 
couch,  and  planning  economy  in  your  dreams, 
where  were  you  then  ? 

Paul  Courtenay,  a  dark,  good-looking  young 
man,  with  a  broad  beetling  forehead,  bestowed 
a  gratified  look  on  these  preparations,  sat 
down,  drew  his  chair  to  the  fire,  rested  his 
feet  on  the  fender,  and  said  emphatically, 

"You  bright  Uttle  fairy  !  What  lucky  fel- 
low will  have  you,  I  wonder !  " 

"  Well,  I  do  think  he  will  be  lucky,"  can- 
didly replied  Dora,  minding  her  frying-pan  all 
the  time  ;  "  only  I  wonder,  Paul,  if  he  will  ap- 
preciate his  happiness." 

"  He  had  better  do  so,"  replied  Paul,  v;ith 
something  like  sternness. 

"Dear  Paul!"  thought  Dora,  "I  do  be- 
lieve he  would  defend  me  to  the  last  drop  of 
his  blood." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  for  news  ?  "  said  Paul. 
"  No,  you  must  eat  first.     There,  hold  your 
plate,  and  do  not  leave  a  morsel." 

Paul  obeyed  literally.  lie  ate  and  drank 
heartily,  and  soon  looked  much  the  better  for 


the  meal  his  thoughtful  little  sister  had  pro- 
vided. 

"  And  now,"  said  Dora,  sitting  down  at  his 
knee  on  a  hassock  which  she  had  brought 
down  for  that  purpose — "  now  you  may  tell 
me  all." 

Her  bright  eyes  were  fastened  on  his  in 
eager  expectation ;  her  parted  lips  expressed 
the  very  keenness  of  desire. 

"  Well,  imagine  a  wild  landscape  with 
mountains  around  it,  a  grassy  park  with  noble 
trees,  the  smoke  of  a  waterfall  on  your  right 
hand,  and  on  your  left  a  little  gray  lake  with 
a  patch  of  blue  sky ;  in  the  distance  a  plain 
white  house — that  is  Deenah.  When  I  reached 
the  house  an  old  servant  in  sober  livery  showed 
me  into  the  room  where  Mr.  Courtenay  was 
sitting.  I  saw  a  little  pale  old  man,  bUnd  of 
one  eye,  on  whom  I  should  have  been  afraid 
to  blow,  so  weak  did  he  seem.  He  held  out 
his  hand,  a  cold  weak  hand,  and  told  me  in  a 
whisper — '  I  am  glad  to  see  you  ;  but  I  had  a 
wretched  night — I  woke  at  two — sleeplessness 
is  constitutional  with  me.  I  had  a  fall  three 
months  back,  and  ^ome  nerve  got  injured,  for 
when  the  weather  changes  I  feel  a  great 
throbbing  and  cannot  sleep." 

"  Did  he  ask  after  mamma  or  Aunt  Luan  ?  " 
"  He  did  not.  He  could  not  weary  of  his 
sleepless  night !  Yet  he  also  spoke  on  busi- 
ness. '  You  are  my  heir-at-law,'  he  said  ; 
'  but  I  did  not  get  my  property  from  my  an- 
cestors, and  what  did  not  come  by  inheritance 
need  not  go  by  inheritance.  I  shall  leave  you 
and  your  sister,  and  John  Luan  even,  five 
hundred  pounds  each,  which,  as  I  was  not  on 
friendly  terms  with  your  late  father,  and  will 
never  see  my  sister  again,  is  handsome.  But 
then  to  whom  shall  I  leave  Deenah  and  the 
rest  of  the  property,  which  is  large — to  you  or 
to  young  Templemore  ?  He  was  my  late  wife's 
nephew,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  brought  me  a 
good  deal  of  money ;  so  he,  too,  has  claims, 
you  see.' '' 


MR.   COURTENAY'S  CURIOSITIES. 


11 


"  Let  him  share  his  money  between  you," 
promptly  said  Dora. 

"  Tell  him  to  make  two  halves  of  his  body," 
replied  her  brother,  smiling. 

"'Well,  you  shall  have  the  first  chance,' 
said  Mr.  Courtenay.  What  that  chance  was 
I  learned  after  luncheon.  It  was  too  damp 
for  us  to  visit  the  grounds,  but  Mr.  Courtenay 
— my  uncle,  I  should  say — showed  me  over 
the  house.  He  went  gliding  about  that  great 
lonely  place  in  felt  sUppers,  like  the  Italian 
poet's  Sleep,  and  looking  more  like  his  own 
ghost  than  like  a  living  man.  But  a  very  nice 
ghost  Mr.  Courtenay  made,  I  must  say.  He 
is  small  and  slender,  and  neat  beyond  any  one 
I  ever  knew.  His  motions  are  noiseless,  quiet, 
and  graceful,  like  your  cat's,  Dora.  I  could 
not  help  admiring  the  perfection  of  nicety 
there  is  about  that  insignificant  old  man.  He 
has  made  his  house  like  himself,  a  complete 
thing ;  but  money  has  given  him  the  power 
of  acquiring  what  nature  bestows,  but  never 
sells,  and  thence  Mr.  Courtenay's  house  is 
something  exquisite.  '  You  have  not  seen  my 
curiosities,'  he  said,  'you  must  see  my  curi- 
osities.' He  took  me  to  a  sort  of  gallery,  with 
windows  on  one  side,  and  glass  cases  on  the 
other.  Between  the  cases  were  statues,  beau- 
tiful pieces  of  furniture,  large  porcelain  or 
marble  vases,  and  more  things  than  I  can  tell 
you  of.  The  evening  was  coming  on,  and  the 
room  was  rather  dark.  Well,  Dora,  on  that 
room  hangs  my  fate  ;  through  that  room  I  am 
to  grow  rich,  or  to  remain  poor.  That  room 
and  its  contents  will  probably  decide  whether 
or  not  your  brother  shall  ever  marry  Florence 
Gale ! " 

Paul  looked  grave,  almost  sad.  It  was  plain 
that  he  felt  by  no  means  sanguine. 

"  But  how — how  so  ?  "  asked  Dora,  shaking 
her  bright  head  a  little  defiantly. 

"  Wait  and  you  shall  learn.  '  This,'  said 
Mr.  Courtenay,  'is  my  hobby,  you  know. 
This  collection,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  valued 


at  twenty  thousand  pounds.  It  did  not  cost 
me  twenty  hundred.  You  see  taste  did  not 
run  much  this  way  when  I  travelled  on  the 
Continent  forty-five  years  ago.  Look  at  this 
saucer — '  he  opened  one  of  the  glass  cases, 
and  took  out  one  of  tho  most  hideous  objects 
you  ever  saw,  Dora — a  large  round  dish,  with 
a  green  speckled  serpent,  and  horrible  little 
hzards  filling  the  centre.  '  Do  you  know,  sir,' 
he  continued,  '  how  much  I  paid  for  this  treas- 
ure, genuine  Palissy,  at  a  bric-d-brac  shop  ui 
Paris,  forty-five  years  ago?  Fifty  sous,  sir. 
It  would  be  cheap  at  fifty  pounds  now.  And 
it  is  unique — unique  !  No  other  Pahssy  that 
I  know  of  has  that  kind  of  serpent.'  I  cannot 
tell  you,  Dora,  how  he  looked  as  he  spoke. 
The  man  was  transfigured.  His  one  eye  shone, 
his  pale  cheek  was  flushed,  his  very  voice 
quivered.  He  took  me  over  all  his  treasures, 
and  explained  them  to  me  one  by  one  in  the 
same  mood.  And  when  we  came  to  a  low 
glass  shade,  he  stopped  with  a  sort  of  awe. 
'  That,'  he  whispered,  '  is  my  Henri-deux  ware 
— look  ! '  I  saw  a  little  pale  salt-cellar,  with  a 
very  fine  pattern  upon  it,  a  thing  for  which  I 
would  scarcely  have  given  threepence,  Dora ; 
well,  it  seems  it  is  worth  hundreds.  And  there 
is  a  mystery  about  its  manufacture,  and  I  am 
to  find  out  the  mystery,  though  it  has  puzzled 
and  still  puzzles  the  learned." 

"  Well,  but  what  about  the  fortune  ?  "  asked 
Dora. 

"  Why,  this — that  if  I  can  write  a  good  de- 
scriptive account,  a  first-rate  catalogue  of  Mr. 
Courtenay's  collection,  both  collection  and 
fortune  are  mine." 

"  Why,  then,  you  are  sure  of  it,"  cried 
Dora,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  And  pray  how  am  I  to  write  such  a  cata- 
logue? It  would  take  half  a  hfetime  to  ac- 
quire the  knowledge  needed  for  the  task,  and 
Mr.  Courtenay  would  detect  the  least  flaw  in 
my  erudition.  I  shall  make  the  attempt,  and 
respond  to  his  kindness  in  giving  mc  what  he 


12 


DORA. 


calls  the  first  chance,  but  I  do  not  reckon  on 
success." 

"  But  you  must  succeed,  Paul.  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay  means  you  to  succeed." 

"  Mr.  Courtenay  is  a  true  Courtenay,  Dora, 
honorable  and  conscientious,  and  not  know- 
ing how  to  decide  between  this  young  Temple- 
more's  claims  and  mine,  he  has  hit  on  this 
scheme ;  but  being  a  true  Courtenay,  he  will 
abide  by  the  law  of  his  own  laying  down." 

Dora  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  decaj-ing  fire. 

"  Has  John  any  chance  ?  "  she  asked. 

"None." 

"  Can  I  help  you  with  the  catalogue  ?  " 

"  Very  Utile,  unless  in  the  way  of  taking 
extracts  in  Mr.  Ryan's  library ;  but  I  am  not 
sanguine,  Dora.  I  feel  I  shall  not  succeed, 
and  I  feel,  too,  I  shall  not  marry  Florence 
Gale." 

Paul  spoke  despondently ;  he  was  liable  to 
such  tits  of  depression,  and  they  saved  him, 
perhaps,  from  the  ridicule  which  might  have 
attached  to  the  quiet  but  obstinate  good  opin- 
ion of  himself,  and  all  pertaining  to  himself, 
which  was  his  only  foible.  But  the  humility 
of  his  tone,  as  he  thus  gave  up  all  hopes  of 
fortune  and  Florence,  vexed  his  ambitious  lit- 
tle sister.  Moreover,  by  thus  placing  Florence 
as  a  prize  beyond  his  reach,  Paul  decidedly 
proved  himself  mortal. 

"  You  must  succeed,  and  you  shall  marry 
her  ! "  she  cried,  almost  impatiently ;  "  she 
must  wait  for  you,  Paul." 

"  How  many  years,  Dora  ?  "We  are  not  en- 
gaged, you  know.  I  could  not  help  letting 
her  see  that  I  loved  her,  dear  girl ;  but  she  is 
not  pledged  to  me.  I  know  she  could  never 
marry  me  unless  I  got  rich,  and  you  kuow," 
he  added,  with  his  grave  smile,  "  I  am  not  the 
man  to  elope  with  a  rich  man's  daughter  ;  be- 
sides, I  never  could  tempt  a  girl  to  such  a 
step.     It  is  not  in  the  Courtenay  blood." 

"  Suppose  I  run  away,"  demurely  suggested 
Dora. 


"Dora,"  he  said,  a  little  austerely,  "never 
jest  so.  No  sister  of  mine  could  do  such  a 
thing." 

"Florence  Gale  would  run  away  with  a 
lord,"  thought  Dora ;  "  poor  Paul,  not  to  know 
it!" 

Again  the  sense  of  her  brother's  blindness 
came  to  Dora  unpleasantly,  and  almost  re- 
morsefully ;  for  was  it  not  a  sort  of  sin  to  see 
it  ?  But  then  she  remembered  the  heel  of 
Achilles,  that  type  of  all  heroic  weakness,  and 
she  was  partly  comforted.  After  all,  Paul 
was  not  bound  to  be  beyond  humanity. 

"  I  say  you  shall  marry  her,"  she  said  again. 
"  It  is  your  right,  and  you  shall  have  your 
right,  Paul." 

"  To  be  sure,"  he  good-humoredly  replied ; 
"  but  it  is  late,  suppose  you  goto  bed.  I  shall 
stay  here  and  smoke  awhile." 

Dora  saw  he  wished  to  be  alone,  and  she  let 
him  have  his  way.  She  got  up,  filled  his  pipe, 
and  brought  it  to  him ;  then  giving  him  a 
parting  look  on  the  threshold  of  the  kitchen 
door,  she  stole  up-stairs  with  a  little  sigh. 
Paul  looked  very  grave,  not  in  the  least  like  a 
man  who  has  had  the  chance  of  a  handsome 
fortune  just  offered  to  him. 

"He  does  not  expect  to  get  it,"  thought 
Dora,  as  she  softly  went  bi^ck  to  her  bed  un- 
heard. "  Oh !  if  I  could  but  write  that  cat- 
alogue for  him !  It  is  not  in  his  way,  and  it 
would  be  in  mine." 

Lest  this  confidence  should  seem  presump- 
tuous in  Miss  Courtenay,  we  may  as  well  men- 
tion that  she  had  received  a  solid  education, 
was  well  read  in  several  languages,  and  could 
write  very  well.  From  her  earliest  years  she 
had  shared  that  portion  of  her  brother's 
studies  and  pursuits  which  could  interest  her. 
Latin  and  the  law  excepted,  she  knew  as  much 
as  he  did,  and  some  things  she  knew  better 
than  Paul.  Their  father,  a  man  of  rare  ac- 
quirements, had  spared  nothing  to  teach  them 
both,  and  Dora,  he  would  say  sometimes,  was 


FLORENCE  GALE. 


13 


the  more  brilliant  scholar  of  the  two.  Dora 
knew  it,  in  a  careless  sort  of  way.  As  a  rule 
she  forgot  the  depth  and  extent  of  her  infor- 
mation ;  but  sometimes,  too,  she  remembered 
it,  and  she  now  wondered  if  she  could  not 
render  her  little  learning  usefu^,to  her  brother. 
She  sat  up  in  her  bed,  thinking  of  the  visit 
she  was  going  to  pay  to  Mr.  Ryan,  of  the 
works  she  must  read,  of  the  manner  in  which 
she  could  turn  her  researches  to  Paul's  advan- 
tage. 

"  He  must  wi-ite  that  catalogue,  and  write  it 
well,"  she  thought.  "I  wish  I  could  see 
Deenah  and  the  lake,  and  the  gallery,  and  that 
wonderful  salt-cellar." 

These  thoughts  followed  her  in  her  dreams. 
She  saw  a  green  solitude,  and  a  shining  lake, 
and  a  white  house.  She  wandered  in  its 
rooms,  preceded  by  Mr.  Courtenay,  who,  look- 
ing on  her  with  his  one  eye,  said  in  a  whisper — 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear ;  I  am  dead,  and 
cannot  hurt  you." 

^She  followed  the  noiseless  little  old  man  till 
she  came  to  the  gallery,  and  there  she  wan- 
dered alone,  for,  ghost-like,  he  had  suddenly 
vanished.  She  saw  every  object  her  brother 
had  described,  and  especially  did  she  see  Mr. 
Courtenay's  specimen  of  Henri-deux  ware. 
The  mystery  concerning  this  rare  bit  of  pot- 
tery, dreamed  Dora,  was  to  be  found  within 
one  of  its  recesses  ;  but  unluckily  she  scarcely 
had  lifted  up  the  glass  shade  to  peep  in,  when 
she  woke  and  saw  the  sun  shining  in  at  her 
window. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Paul's  godfather,  Mr.  Ryan,  had  one  of  the 
largest  private  libraries  in  Dublin,  and  to  him 
Dora  at  once  applied  for  books.  She  was  an 
especial  favorite,  and  was  graciously  received, 
so  far  as  books  went,  but  on  hearing  of  the 
catalogue  Mr.  Ryan  laughed  derisively. 

"  Paul  does  not  know  human  nature,"  he 


said,  "  or  he  would  never  beheve  such  a  wild 
story  as  this.  Let  him  get  the  five  hundred 
pounds — if  he  can — and  I  shall  turn  them  into 
thousands  ;  tell  Paul  so." 

Mr.  Ryan  had  made  a  handsome  fortune  in 
the  Funds,  and  thought  himself  an  authority 
in  all  financial  matters.  Dora  believed  in 
him  implicitly,  save  when  he  ventured  to  cen- 
sure Paul.  She  did  not  deny  his  power  of 
turning  five  hundred  pounds  into  so  many 
thousands,  but  she  indignantly  vindicated  her 
brother's  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  as- 
serted his  prospects  of  success. 

"  I  am  sure  Paul  will  have  Deenah ! "  she 
said,  warmly,  "  and  his  catalogue  will  be  a 
beautiful  catalogue ;  and  I  hope,  Mr.  Ryan, 
that  you  will  let  me  read  in  your  library,  for  I 
want  books,  quartos  perhaps,  or  in-folios, 
which  I  cannot  take  home.  I  am  to  write 
out  all  the  extracts,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  yes  !  you  poor  Uttle  innocent,"  kindly 
said  Mr.  Ryan,  patting  her  on  the  head,  "  have 
your  way." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Dora  was  very 
busy  in  Mr.  Ryan's  library  one  bright  morn- 
ing, a  week  after  Paul's  visit  to  Deenah,  and 
that  Mr.  Ryan  was  reading  with  her  and  gen- 
tly nodding  over  his  book.  Mr.  Ryan  was  a 
happy  man,  and  sleep  came  easily  to  him,  as 
most  things  did,  and  rather  oftener  than  was 
needed.  It  came  now  insidious  and  stealthy. 
The  book  was  dull,  the  room  rather  close,  and 
Mr.  Ryan's  luncheon  had  been  comfortable. 
Sleep  was  having  it  all  his  own  way,  and 
would  have  prevailed  entirely,  if  the  library 
door  had  not  opened  gently,  and  a  very  pretty 
girlish  face  peeped  in  with  a  merry  laugh. 
Dora  looked  up,  and  Mr.  Ryan  awoke  with  a 
start. 

"  Xapping — napping  both  of  you  !  "  said  the 
intruder ;  "  and  how  is  that  catalogue  to  be 
done,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  napping,  Florence,"  gravely  re- 
plied Dora  ;  "  I  was  reading." 


14 


DORA. 


"Was  Mr.  Ryan  reading  too?"  shrewdly 
asked  Miss  Gale. 

Mr.  Ryan  laughed,  and  looked  admiringly  at 
the  pretty  creature  before  him.  Paul's  mis- 
tress was  neither  short  nor  tall,  neither  plump 
nor  thin.  Her  figure  had  every  charm  which 
nature  can  give  to  youth,  nothing  too  much 
and  nothing  too  little.  She  stood  before  Mr. 
Eyan,  dangling  her  hat  in  her  hand,  and  smil- 
ing down  at  him  in  conscious  beauty.  She 
was  always  pretty,  but  these  smiles  of  hers, 
which  were  neither  few  nor  far  between,  made 
her  enchanting,  and  she  knew  it.  Seducing 
is  the  word  that  describes  her  best.  Never 
did  softer  black  eyes  beam  from  beneath  more 
finely-pencilled  eyebrows  than  those  of  Flor- 
ence. Her  dark  hair  was  glossy  and  abun- 
dant ;  her  teeth  were  two  rows  of  pearls  ;  her 
rosy  cheeks 'were  full  of  the  most  fascinating 
dimples,  and  though  she  was  by  several  years 
Dora's  elder,  she  looked  the  younger  and  the 
more  childish  of  the  two. 

"  Why  were  you  not  reading  and  helping 
poor  Paul  ?  "  she  asked,  coaxingly,  of  Paul's 
godfather ;  "  and  why  is  not  Paul  here  ?  "  she 
added,  turning  on  Dora,  and  speaking  rather 
pettishly. 

"  Paul  is  not  well,  Florence." 

Miss  Gale  threw  herself  into  the  nearest 
arm-chair,  and  exclaimed,  petulantly, 

"  I  do  think  Paul  does  it  on  purpose,  not  to 
be  well  just  because  he  has  that  catalogue  to 
do,  and  the  chance  of  a  fortune  to  get.  I  sup- 
pose young  Templemore  will  have  it ;  and  I 
wish  he  may,"  she  added,  waxing  wroth  ;  "  he 
is  my  cousin,  third  or  fourth,  and  I  wish  he 
may  get  Deenah !  I  do,  since  Paul  does  not 
care  for  it,  and  only  coddles  himself  up." 

Dora  looked  at  her  in  a  silent  indignation, 
whTch  was  wholly  thrown  away  on  Miss  Gale  ; 
while  Mr.  Ryan  remarked  gravely, 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  will  marry  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore if  he  gets  Deenah  ?  " 

"  Marry  him !  "  exclaimed  Florence,  raising 


her    arched    eyebrows ;     "  marry    him,    Mr. 
Ryan  1 " 

"  What !  is  he  so  objectionable  ?  Never 
mind,  Deenah  will  make  him  fascinating 
enough." 

"  But  he  ha3»got  a  wife  and  little  girls  ! " 
ejaculated  Florence.  "I  told  you  so  the 
other  day — I  wish  you  would  not  worry,  Mr. 
Ryan." 

"  Why,  yes,  it  is  tantalizing.  The  little 
girls  would  make  no  difierence ;  but  the  wife 
is  an  objection." 

Florence  laughed,  and  Dora,  bending  over 
her  book,  thought  with  a  swelling  heart,  "  It 
is  Deenah  she  wants.  Paul  she  does  not  care 
for.  She  does  not  even  ask  what  ails  him." 
But  this  omission  Miss  Gale  repaired  before 
her  departure.  After  spending  half  an  hour 
in  listening  to  Mr.  Ryan's  mingled  praise  and 
quizzing — provided  she  got  the  one,  she  had 
not  the  least  objection  to  the  other — she  sud- 
denly discovered  that  she  was  wanted  home. 

"  I  told  papa  I  was  going  to  see  aunt,"  she 
said,  confidentially,  to  Dora  ;  "  and  now  I  shall 
have  to  say  that  aunt  was  out.  I  thought  to 
find  Paul  here — what  ails  him  ?  " 

"  He  knocked  himself  up  with  working  too 
hard." 

"  Now,  Dora,  if  you  put  that  into  his  head, 
that  wretched  catalogue  will  never  be  done ; 
so  pray  don't.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Ryan,  a 
pleasant  nap  to  you." 

And  puttmg  on  her  little  hat,  after  waving 
it  in  mock  courtesy  to  Mr.  Ryan,  Miss  Gale 
danced  out  of  the  room  without  giving  him 
time  to  follow  her,  or  even  ring  the  bell. 

"The  prettiest,  emptiest  little  thing  that  ever 
was,  eh,  Dora  ?  " 

But,  whatever  Dora's  thoughts  might  be, 
she  would  not  grant  Paul's  mistress  to  be  less 
than  perfect. 

"Florence  is  too  good-natured,  Mr.  Ryan," 
she  said,  indignantly;  "she  allows  you  to 
quiz  her !     I  would  not  tolerate  it ! " 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  SALT-CELLAli. 


15 


"  Nor  deserve  it,"  politely  said  Mr.  Ryan ; 
"no,  no,  Dora — I  know  where  the  shoe 
pinches.  You  cannot  understand  that  Paul 
should  be  so  smitten  with  that  silly  little 
bird,  but  you  will  not  confess  it.  Never  mind, 
my  dear.  Most  young  men  would  be  no  wiser 
than  Paul  is.  So  we  will  help  him  all  the 
same  with  his  catalogue,  in  order  that  he  may 
get  his  pretty  Florence.  For  unless  Paul  has 
Deenah,  or  something  very  like  it,  Mr.  Gale 
will  never  give  him  his  daughter,  as  we  all 
know." 

Dora  sighed.  Yes,  Paul's  happiness  hung 
on  that  catalogue. 

Mr.  Courtenay  was  a  pitiless  collector.  He 
had  specimens  of  everything,  or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  he  had  collected  in  every  pos- 
sible direction.  Paul  had  paid  a  second  visit 
to  Deenah,  and  come  back  with  a  list  of  ob- 
jects to  be  described  that  would  have  puzzled 
a  Benedictine  monk's  learning.  Etruscan 
vases  and  Dutch  hardware,  Majolica,  Indian 
carving,  mediseval  armor,  old  laces,  illuminated 
manuscripts,  bewildered  Dora,  and  tried  Mr. 
Ryan's  library  to  the  utmost.  So  she  -worked 
hard,  and  without  relaxation,  till  it  was  time 
to  go  and  bid  Mr.  Ryan  adieu. 

"  I  shall  go  on  with  that  Hydria,"  he  said, 
"  and  that  antique  mask  as  well.  I  shall  do  all 
the  hard  work  for  you,  Dora.  The  rest  will 
be  child's  play  to  Paul  and  you — tell  him  so." 
-»•  Mr.  Ryan  had  been  "  going  on "  with  the 
Hydria  and  the  antique  mask  for  a  week.  He 
was  one  of  the  many  who  mistake  a  kind  in- 
tention for  its  fulfilment.  A  promise  was  so 
delightfully  easy.  It  gratified  both  his  amia- 
bility by  the  prospect  of  good  to  be  done,  and 
his  indolence  by  its  postponement.  Dora 
smiled  at  his  calmly-benevolent  tone,  and  then 
went  her  way. 

Mr.  Ryan's  house — and  a  handsome,  pleas- 
ant house  it  was — stood  near  Pha3nix  Park. 
There  Dora  was  to  find  her  brother,  who  wished 
to  escort  her  home.     He  vras  true  to  his  ap- 


pointment, but  as  he  walked  towards  her  Dora 
was  struck  with  his  pale  face,  and  exclaimed, 
anxiously, 

*'  Paul,  you  have  been  working  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  help  it.  Do  you  know,  I  think 
that  if  it  was  Mr.  Courtenay's  object  to  give 
me  a  taste  for  his  curiosities  by  making  me 
write  that  catalogue,  he  has  been  successful. 
I  could  not  help  looking  over  my  notes,  and 
once  I  had  looked  I  should  write." 

Dora  looked  at  him  with  growing  uneasiness. 
Paul  was  very  pale,  but  his  dark  eyes  burned 
with  a  feverish  light.  Surely  he  was  not  ill  ? 
surely  it  was  only  fatigue  that  ailed  him  ? 

"  You  know  I  told  you  that  Mr.  Courtenay 
has  a  salt-cellar  of  Henri-deux  ware?  "  re- 
sumed Paul,  "  and  that,  though  he  does  not 
expect  me  to  solve  the  great  mystery,  he 
nevertheless  wishes  me  to  have  a  theory  on 
the  subject.  Well,  Dora,  I  do  believe  I  am  on 
the  track — yes,  and  I  think,  too,  my  theory  is 
the  right  one." 

Dora  looked  at  him  in  great  admiration.  Of 
course,  if  Paul  had  a  theory,  it  must  be  the  ' 
right  one,  and  of  course  a  right  theory  on  Mr. 
Courtenay's  salt-cellar  of  Henri-deux  ware 
meant  triumph.  She  said  so  with  sparkhng 
eyes.    Paul  laughed,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  I  promised 
Florence  to  work  hard,  and  I  will." 

"  When  did  you  see  her  ?  " 

"  This  afternoon..  Dear  girl !  she  came  to 
tell  me  her  father  wants  her  to  marry  a  Mr. 
Logan,  whom  she  hates.  She  was  all  in  tears, 
but  I  so  promised  to  work,  and  be  successful, 
that  she  was  bright  again  when  she  left  us." 

Dora  sighed.  What  availed  it  that  she  did 
all  she  could  to  spare  Paul,  if  Florence  came 
and  urged  him  on  ?  But  with  that  menace  of 
a  rival  it  was  useless  to  try  and  check  him. 
Silly  though  she  was,  Florence  had  an  art  in 
which  even  silly  women  are  expert.  She  knew 
how  to  rule  the  man  who  loved  her,  and  Dora 
was  too  wise  to  contend  against  her  influence. 


16 


DORA. 


"And  so,"  continued  Paul,  "I  worked 
hard.  I  did  more.  I  called  on  Mr.  Gale  on 
my  way  here." 

Dora  stood  still,  and  uttered  a  breathless 
"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  got  a  diplomatic  reply.  Mr.  Gale 
praised  my  candor,  but,  of  course,  pledged 
himself  to  nothing.  Only  I  know  and  feel 
this :  if  I  succeed,  I  am  sure  of  Florence 
spite  all  the  Logans  there  may  be." 

He  seemed  so  hopeful,  that  it  made  Dora 
happy  to  look  at  him.  They  spent  the  even- 
ing in  working  together,  and  making  use  of 
her  notes.  They  sat  in  the  cottage  parlor, 
with  the  rest  of  the  family  around  them. 
Paul's  mind  required  neither  silence  nor  soli- 
tude for  its  exertions.  He  read  and  wrote, 
and  Dora  either  helped  her  brother,  or  was 
wrapped  up  in  him.  Though  she  had  no  spare 
time  or  speech  to  bestow  on  John,  Mrs.  Luan's 
sou  did  not  miss  his  cousin's  teasing.  He 
thought  it  hard  to  be  excluded  from  his  chance, 
as  he  called  it,  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  fortune, 
and  he  had  said  so  bluntly  on  learning  the 
terms  on  which  Paul  was  to  compete  for  it. 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  good  soul,  had  wondered  her 
brother-in-law  did  not  at  once  leave  the  money 
to  Paul,  just  giving  him  a  few  thousands  to 
begin  life  with ;  but  of  herself,  or  even  of  her 
daughter  Dora's  claims,  she  said  nothing. 
Paul  was  dear  to  her,  as  if  he  had  been  her  own 
son,  and  on  this  evening  she  was  engaged  in 
doing  a  patience  for  a  wish,  which  wish  was 
her  step-son's  success  in  his  undertaking. 

"  And  it  is  going  on  beautifully,  Paul,"  she 
said,  with  a  beaming  face.  "  This  is  my  great 
patience,  that  which  Louis  the  Eighteenth  did 
every  evening  after  his  dinner.  I  really  think 
it  will  succeed." 

Paul  smiled  kindly,  and  Mrs.  Luan  went  on 
silently  with  her  patchwork.  She  had  made 
no  comment  on  her  brother's  decision,  and  her 
silence  was  laid  to  the  fact  that  they  had  quar- 
relled at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  and  never 


been  reconciled.  It  was  hard  to  say  whai 
passed  in  her  mind.  She  seemed  as  dull  and  as 
apathetic  as  ever.  On  one  point  she  remained 
firm.  Neither  Dora's  promised  five  hundred 
pounds,  nor  the  chance  which  her  brother's 
aifection  would  certainly  give  her,  of  a  hand- 
some portion,  if  he  inherited  Mr.  Courtenay's 
fortune,  could  make  her  see  John's  love  for 
his  cousin  Dora  with  anything  save  detestation. 
She  had  no  imagination  to  mislead  ler.  Mr. 
Courtenay  was  not  dead,  but  living.  His  prom- 
ise could  be  revoked,  and  the  fact  that  Dora 
was  poor  remained  in  all  its  ugly  truth.  It 
may  be  that  this  fear  was  enough  for  her,  her 
mind  not  being  one  which  could  hold  many 
ideas,  or  grasp  many  projects  at  the  same 
time.  At  all  events,  it  was  the  only  thought 
she  dwelt  upon  as  she  sat  and  stitched  at  her 
patchwork  during  the  long  autumn  evening, 
whilst  brother  and  sister  toiled,  and  John 
looked  on  with  sullen  discontent.  He  thought 
it  hard,  and  he  said  so,  to  be  excluded  from 
the  competition,  since  there  was  one.  Who 
was  that  Templemore,  that  he  should  step  in 
and  have  a  chance  when  he,  John,  had  none  ? 
Why  should  not  John  have  attempted  a  cata- 
logue, and  had  his  theory  on  the  Henri-deux 
salt-cellar?  So  he  grumbled,  then  went  to 
bed,  whilst  Dora  sat  up  with  her  brother,  car- 
ing nothing  for  either  labor  or  vigil,  if  they 
but  helped  him  to  a  fortune  and  Florence 
Gale. 

"  Dear  girl !  "  he  said  fondly.  "  She  is  so 
artless,  she  has  already  appropriated  half  the 
collection.  She  seems  to  take  it  for  granted 
that  the  poor  old  gentleman  must  die  off  in 
order  to  make  room  for  us." 

Dora  looked  pensive,  but  did  not  wonder 
much  ;  there  was  a  charm  in  everything  Flor- 
ence said. 


THE  CATALOGUE  COMPLETED. 


17 


CHxYPTER  V. 

The  catalogue  proved  a  tedious  task,  and 
soon  absorbed  Paul  Courtenay  completely. 
He  grew  to  be  like  a  gambler  watching  the 
fate  of  l^is  last  stake.  The  law  was  neglected 
now,  and  he  remained  at  home  day  after  day 
"  to  work  at  the  catalogue."  He  had  acquired 
a  genuine  passion  for  the  curiosities  on  which 
his  fate  hung,  and  that  passion  held  him  fast. 

"  There  is  no  such  collection  as  Mr.  Courte- 
nay's,"  he  often  said  to  Dora ;  "  besides,  we 
alone  have  got  a  Henri-deux  salt-cellar,  you 
know." 

The  whole  family,  indeed,  got  excited  when 
the  catalogue  was  mentioned.  Mrs.  Luan  said 
nothing,  but  looked  almost  bright.  John  for- 
got his  annoyance  to  wish  Paul  success  ;  and 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  a  little  shrill  raising  of 
the  voice,  "  was  sure  she  was  that  dear  Paul 
must  win." 

Dora  alone  was  rather  grave.  She  too  felt  cer- 
tain of  her  brother's  success,  but  then  how  pale, 
how  worn  he  looked !  Paul's  mother  had  died 
young,  and  Paul  was  very  like  the  miniature 
of  her  in  his  room.  Oh  !  what  if  the  cost  ^of 
success  should  prove  too  dear !  This  terrible 
thought  came  but  once,  and  was  banished  so 
angrily. that  it  came  no  more ;  but  though  the 
dooi«  were  closed  upon  it,  the  baleful  presence 
had  been  there,  and  the  uneasiness  it  had  gen- 
erated remained  behind. 

At  length  the  catalogue  was  finished,  and 
Paul,  who  would  not  trust  the  post  with  it, 
took  it  down  himself  to  Deenah.  He  was  full 
of  hope,  especially  concerning  his  theory  on 
the  Henri-deux  ware. 

"  There  is  a  G  on  our  salt-cellar,"  he  said  to 
Dora  ;  "  who  can  doubt  that  it  was  put  there 
for  Girolamo  dcUa  Robbia,the  great  Italian  ?  " 

How  happy  and  confident  he  looked,  but  how 
sunken  his  eyes  were,  how  hollow  his  cheeks 
had  grown !  The  thought  haunted  her,  as, 
after  seeing  him  oif,  she  came  home  from  the 


station  and  passed  through  the  garden  to  the 
house,  looking  at  its  last  autumn  flowers.  A  few 
pale  and  drooping  chrysanthemums  still  braved 
the  night  and  morning  chill,  and  held  on  their 
languid  life,  ready  to  perish  with  the  first  sharp 
breath  of  coming  winter.  To  Dora,  in  the 
fulness  of  her  strength  and  youth,  these  flowers 
were  ungenial.  She  looked  at  them  with  a 
sort  of  pity,  but  without  love. 

"  Poor  things  !  "  she  thought,  as  she  passed 
on — "poor  things!  I  wish  for  their  sakes 
there  were  a  perpetual  spring.  But  would 
they  really  like  it  ?  They  were  born  to  bloom 
in  autumn  and  to  suffer." 

With  this  thought  came  another  that  passed 
through  her  hke  a  quick  sharp  pang.  AVhy 
was  Paul  so  sad-looking  ?  "Was  he,  too,  meant 
to  Uve  in  sorrow,  and  die  early  ?  She  rebelled 
at  the  thought.  She  would  not  submit  to  it. 
Paul  was  her  hero  and  her  king,  endowed  with 
the  heroic  gift  of  perpetual  youth  and  every 
kingly  attribute.  He  should  live,  he  should 
be  strong  and  happy.  He  should  prevail  and 
be  rich,  ay,  and  have  Florence  Gale  too,  since 
he  wished  for  her. 

"  It  is  a  folly,"  thought  Dora,  looking  down 
at  it  from  the  height  of  her  superior  wisdom. 
"  I  dare  say  he  thinks  he  cannot  help  it,  as  if 
one  could  not  always  help  these  things  !  Poor 
Florence,  it  is  no  fault  of  hers  if  she  is  so 
much  beneath  dear  Paul ! " 

As  she  came*  to  this  charitable  conclusion, 
Dora  entered  the  cottage  and  found  Florence 
there.  The  young  lady  flew  at  her  and  gave 
her  a  warm  hug. 

"Now,  darling!"  she  cried,  "do  tell  me. 
Is  it  a  good  catalogue  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  very  good  one,  Florence." 

"  And  do  you  think  Paul  will  get  Deenah  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Courtenay  is  still  living,  Florence." 

"  Oh !  but  he  is  sure  to  die.  He  looks  so 
ill ! " 

"  So  does  Paul." 

Florence  pouted,  and  said  a  little  sulkily, 


18 


DORA. 


"  That  is  for  me,  Dora.  ' 

Dora  sighed,  and  said  more  gently — 

"  I  do  wish  you  had  spared  him  a  little 
more ;  but  what  is  done  is  done.  Let  us  only 
hope  he  will  be  successful." 

Florence  laughed. 

"  He  must  be  successful  if  he  means  to  have 
me,"  she  said  saucily.  "  But  why  did  he  go 
off  to  Deenah  ?  I  came  to  see  him,  and  he  is 
gone !    Why  did  he  not  manage  to  see  me  ?  " 

"  He  is  under  a  pledge  to  your  fiither." 

"  Pledge  fiddlesticks  !  "  interrupted  Flor- 
ence.    "  Why  does  he  keep  it  ?  " 

"  Because  Paul  cannot  break  a  promise," 
was  the  grave  reply. 

"  Oh  !  dear,"  ruefully  said  Miss  Gale ;  "  why, 
I  had  to  tell  such  a  set  of  fibs  to  get  here. 
Firstly,  that  Mrs.  Smith  wanted  me  to  take  a 
drive  with  her — that  was  to  papa ;  secondly, 
to  Mrs.  Smith,  that  I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  about  a  charitable  concern  ;  and  third- 
ly— "  here  Miss  Gale  looked  bewildered — "  I 
have  forgotten  the  third,"  she  said,  "  but  I 
know  there  was  one." 

Dora  heard  her  gravely.  Paul  adored  Flor- 
ence, but  she  wondered  how  long  such  adora- 
tion would  last. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  going  down  to  Deenah," 
resumed  Florence,  who  would  talk,  no  matter 
about  what.  "  I  suppose  papa  wants  some 
shooting,  but  I  think  it  would  be  much  cheaper 
to  buy  game,  don't  you?  " 

"I  suppose  so,"  replied  Dora  passively. 

"  Such  a  beautiful  place  as  old  Courtenay's 
is,"  continued  Florence  enthusiastically ;  "  I 
shall  like  it  much,  Dora.  I  have  planned  all 
sorts  of  changes,  you  know.  These  mousey 
old  things  shall  not  have  the  best  room.  We 
dined  with  old  Courtenay  last  year,  and  oh  ! 
how  he  did  prose !  He  had  not  slept  all 
night,  and  he  said  so,  also  that  his  nails  grew 
fast,  and  did  I  not  think  it  a  sign  of  ill-health  ? 
And  I  was  thinking  all  the  time  of  his  Paschal 
candelabrum,  as  he  calls  it." 


"  The  finest  of  its  kind,  excepting  one  at 
Milan,"  interrupted  Dora  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Is  there  really  an  uglier  one  ?  "  asked 
Florence.  "  Well,  I  was  thinking  of  it,  and 
that  if  I  had  Deenah  I  should  put  it  in  the  hall, 
and  now  of  course  I  will." 

Dora  did  not  answer.  She  longed  for 
silence  and  peace.  Relief  came ;  the  door 
opened,  and  John  Luan  entered  the  room.  It 
so  happened  that  this  was  the  first  time  Flor- 
ence saw  him,  for  she  was  a  rare  visitor  at  the 
cottage.  She  gave  him  a  half-shy,  half-doubt- 
ful look.  He  looked  at  her,  too,  and  rather 
scornfully  Dora  watched  what  followed.  Miss 
Gale  could  not  do  without  admiration.  Paul 
was  not  present.  She  at  once  took  up  with 
John.  Mrs.  Luan's  son,  so  bashful  with  Dora, 
showed  sudden  brightnesg.  This  pretty  dark- 
haired  girl,  whose  face  expressed  vivacity  and 
languor  in  a  most  bewitching  degree,  rather 
threw  Dora  into  the  shade.  Indeed,  so  far  as 
beauty  went,  there  could  be  no  comparison  be- 
tween these  two.  Take  away  her  brightness, 
and  a  pair  of  dark-grey  eyes  from  Dora,  and 
there  remained  little  to  her  save  youth  and  its 
bloom.  Dora  was  not  jealous  of  John,  but 
what  girl  likes  to  be  eclipsed  ?  She  resented 
his  faithlessness  and  Miss  Gale's  coquetry  in 
equal  degree.  Besides,  how  dare  she  trifle 
thus  with  another  whilst  Paul  was  away  ?  So 
she  looked  at  the  pair  with  an  austerity  of 
which  John  was  unconscious,  and  which  filled 
Miss  Gale  with  mischievous  glee.  But  this 
pretty  pastime  did  not  last.  Florence  started 
up  with  an  artless  exclamation  of — 

"  Oh !  dear,  poor  Mrs.  Smith  will  be  mad 
with  me,  she  will.     Good-bye,  darling !  " 

And  giving  Dora  a  wann  hug,  and  a  fond 
kiss,  and  dropping  John  Luan  a  curtsy,  she 
ran  away,  thinking, 

"  How  savage  Dora  looks,  and  how  sly  she 
is !  but  have  I  not  paid  her  out  for  it,  though  ?  " 

From  which  it  need  not  be  concluded  that 
Miss  Gale  meant  any  particular  harm,  or  that 


DEENAH. 


19 


Bhe  had  designs  on  penniless  John  Luan. 
Only  pleasure  was  her  law,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant  to  be  looked  at  with  such  sincere  ad- 
miration as  that  to  be  read  in  Mr.  Luan's  blue 
eyes. 

"  What  a  sweet  girl ! "  he  could  not  help 
saying,  and  he  went  to  the  window  to  look 
after  the  graceful  figure  lightly  running  down 
the  road  toward  the  carriage  of  Mrs.  Smith. 
"  Such  soft  dark  eyes,  and  nice  eyebrows  !  " 

"  Yes,"  apathetically  said  Dora,  "  very  ! " 

She,  too,  looked  after  Florence,  and  as  she 
looked  she  tried  to  solve  a  problem  which 
puzzles  many  women,  and  the  opposite  of 
which,  no  doubt,  perplexes  many  men.  How 
is  it,  for  instance,  that  girls  like  Florence,  who 
have  not  the  better  and  nobler  part  of  beauty, 
its  grand  or  its  lovely  meaning,  only  the  white 
and  red,  or  the  well-shaped  eye  and  arched 
brow,  who  have  httle  mind,  not  much  heart, 
and  no  more  sense  than  wit,  how  is  it  they 
win,  ay,  and  keep  men's  hearts  ? 

"  Paul  has  never  been  the  same  to  me  since 
he  saw  her  face,"  though"t  Dora,  with  a  swell- 
ing heart ;  "  and  it  is  well  for  me  I  do  not  care 
for  John,  for  he  swears  by  her  already.  How 
does  she  do  it?" 

Vexed  question.  How  often  the  man  of 
sense  and  sterling  merit  has  tried  to  solve  it, 
when  he  has  seen  himself  put  by  for  a  coarse 
or  a  shallow  fool !  But  Dora  only  thought  of 
Imc  own  case,  and  she  thought  of  it  as  if  with 
a  foreshadowing  of  what  the  future  was  to 
bring  forth.  She  was  not  surprised,  when 
John  left  the  window,  to  find  that  it  was  to 
talk  of  Florence  Gale  ;  but  the  subject  rather 
wearied  her.  She  was  glad  when  her  aunt 
entered  the  room,  and  still  better  pleased 
when  the  evening  was  over,  and  she  sat  up 
alone  waiting  for  Paul. 

She  looked  at  the  fire,  and  tried  to  see 
Deenah  in  it.  Then  she  checked  herself. 
What  was  Deenah  to  her,  or  any  place  where 
Florence  must  reign  ! 


"  You  are  beautiful,  Deenah,"  she  said  to 
herself ;  "  but  I  must  not  think  of  you. 
Well,  no  matter,  so  dear  Paul  has  you  and  is 
happy." 

And  as  dear  Paul  himself  was  even  then 
knocking  at  the  door,  she  rose  with  joyous 
eagerness  to  let  him  in. 

"Well?"  she  said,  breathlessly. 

"  Well,  aU  right ! " 

He  looked  radiant,  and  so  did  Dora. 

"  Did  he  promise  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No,  no.  Men  like  him  never  promise. 
But  he  paid  me  some  handsome  compliments 
on  my  industry." 

"  And  what  about  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"Not  a  word.  I  never  did  think  that 
Templemore  had  the  least  chance.  I  suspect 
it  was  some  promise  to  his  wife.  How  cold  it 
is!" 

"And  now,  what  will  you  have?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  dear.  I  shall  just  take  the 
cold  out  of  my  bones  and  go  to  bed." 

"  How  pale  you  look,  Paul ! " 

"  I  was  rather  cold  coming  down — ^" 

"  Go  to  bed  at  once  and  take  something 
hot." 

But  Paul  declined  the  latter  part  ot  Dora's 
invitation.  He  would  go  to  bed  presently,  but 
he  would  take  nothing  hot,  and  as  Paul  had  a 
will  of  his  own,  Dora  did  not  insist.  They  sat 
up  awhile,  and  Dora  mentioned  Florence  Gale's 
visit.  His  eyes  softened,  and  he  laughed  when 
hi.s  sister  told  him  about  Florence's  three  fibs. 

"  Dear  girl ! "  he  exclaimed  fondly. 

"He  must  be  bewitched,"  thought  Dora; 
but  aloud  she  said,  "  Go  to  bed,  Paul,  you 
look  quite  ill." 

"  I  don't  feel  so.  I  feel  very  happy,  Dora. 
Happiness  lies  before  me.  I  think  myself  sure 
of  the  girl  I  love,  of  a  handsome  fortune  and  a 
fine  estate,  and  as  I  must  work  on,  I  hope  to 
these  blessings  to  add  those  of  a  position  won 
by  my  own  exertions,  and  of  honorable  fame. 
I  say  it  again,  happiness  lies  before  me,  and 


20 


DORA. 


that  prospect  has  not  always  been  mine.  And 
you  shall  be  happy,  Dora.  A  guinea  a  Ime  will 
you  get  for  that  catalogue,  and  let  me  tell  you 
there  are  not  many  who  get  so  much." 

"A  guinea  a  line  !  "  said  Dora,  clapping  her 
hands,  and  looking  delighted.  "  Oh  !  you  gen- 
erous Paul,  you  are  surely  the  Prince  of 
Publishers ! " 

"And  what  will  you  do  with  that  money  ?  " 

"  Buy  aunt  and  mamma  new  dresses,  take  a 
cottage  with  a  large  garden  to  it ;  then  I  must 
have  an  aviary,  a  conservatory." 

"  You  -will  find  all  these  at  Deenah ! "  he 
interrupted. 

"  But  I  do  not  mean  to  wait  till  Mr.  Courte- 
nay  dies,  for  them,  sir." 

"  Quite  right,  ma'am ;  and  so  good-night." 

"And  now  I  must  go  back  to  the  law," 
said  Paul,  next  morning. 

This  was  more  easily  said  than  done.  Paul's 
heart  was  no  longer  with  his  austere  mistress. 
The  goal  of  his  ambition  had  been  displaced 
and  the  task  before  him  seemed  dull,  flat,  and 
unprofitable.  That  catalogue  had  unsettled 
them  all.  And  so  time  passed.  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  wondered  at  her  brother-in-law's  silence. 

"  He  ought  to  know  Paul  is  anxious,"  she 
said,  "  and  send  him  word  the  catalogue  is  all 
right.  I  believe  he  quarrelled  with  my  dear 
husband  because  I  was  French ;  but  all  that 
must  be  over  now,  and  he  might  call  upon  me. 
And  if  he  objected  to  Mrs.  Luan,  he  might 
have  asked  to  know  what  day  she  was  out ; 
and,  at  all  events,  he  ought  to  send  us  down  a 
basket  of  game." 

None  of  these  things,  however,  did  Mr. 
Courtenay  do. 

"  But  I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Paul  to  his 
sister.  "  I  am  sure  my  theory  about  the  Ilem-i- 
deux  ware  is  the  right  one." 

"  Of  course  it  is,  Paul." 

"Ah!  you  are  truer  to  me  than  Palissy's 
wife  was  to  him.    What  a  fine  fellow  he  was. 


Dora!  His  trials  and  failures  would  hava 
sickened  any  but  a  true  hero.  It  did  me  good 
to  read  about  him  yesterday.  He  had  labored 
nine  months,  his  oven  was  ready,  his  vases 
were  ready,  his  enamel  was  ready, — fire  was 
to  try  all.  Six  days  and  six  nights  he  spent 
tending  that  fire,  and  at  the  eleventh  hour, 
when  the  goal  seemed  all  but  won,  fuel  failed 
him.  Think  of  that  agony !  The  man  seized 
all  he  had  at  hand — chairs,  tables,  furniture, 
the  very  flooring  of  his  room,  and  his  wife 
goes  distracted,  and  Palissy's  neighbors  say 
he  is  ma4,  and  that  he  is  setting  fire  to  his 
house.  Well,  that  madness  was  his  last.  He 
had  prevailed ;  he  knew  the  Italian  secret,  and 
had  made  it  his." 

"  And  you  have  written  a  good  catalogue, 
and  found  out  the  secret  of  the  Henri-deux 
ware,  and  Deenah  is  to  be  yours,"  replied 
Dora. 

"  And  as  you  have  helped  me  with  the  cata- 
logue, you  shall  have  a  suite  of  rooms  in 
Deenah." 

Dora  laughed,  but  there  seemed  very  little 
likeliness  of  any  such  contingency  just  yet. 
Time  passed,  and  Mr.  Courtenay  gave  no  sign. 
They  all  lived  in  suspense,  save  Mrs.  Luan. 
She  brooded  day  after  day,  no  longer  over  the 
best  way  of  saving  candle  or  sparing  fire,  but 
over  the  means  of  separating  John  and  Dora, 

"  John  must  go  to  London,"  she  at  length 
discovered.  Unluckily,  to  go  to  London 
money  was  needed,  and  neither  John  nor  his 
mother  had  any.  Many  a  sad  mess  did  Mrs. 
Luan  make  with  her  patchwork  about  this 
time. 

At  length  Mr.  Courtenay  wrote.  It  was 
Dora  who  received  the  letter,  and  with  it  a 
large  sealed  packet  from  the  postman.  She 
came  in  with  it  to  the  parlor,  where  Paul  was 
putting  on  his  gloves  before  going  out. 

"Is  it  Fate  ?  "  he  asked  gaily. 

"  I  believe  it  is,"  replied  Dora.  "  It  comes 
from  Deenah." 


MR.    COURTENAY'S  DECISION. 


21 


Mrs.  Luan  put  down  her  patchwork. 

"  Perhaps  John  had  better  not  go  to  Lou- 
don, after  all.  Suppose  Mr.  Courtenay  were 
to  portion  Dora.  Say  give  her  two  thousand 
pounds  or  so." 

Whilst  Mrs.  Luan  was  thus  calculating, 
Paul  broke  the  seal  of  the  letter,  glanced 
over  it,  then  said  calmly,  "  I  have  failed." 

A  dead  silence  fell  on  them  all. 

"My  theory  on  the  Henri-deux  ware  was 
wrong,"  resumed  Paul,  quietly ;  "  at  least,  my 
uncle  says  so."  And  he  read  aloud :  " '  The  G 
on  my  salt-cellar  has  another  origin  than  that 
you  ascribe  to  It.  In  the  year  153Y,  died 
Madame  de  Gouffier,  wife  of  the  Lord  of  Oiron. 
She  left  some  valuable  specimens  of  pottery. 
Now,  Henri-deux  ware  is  the  only  valuable 
French  pottery  of  that  period.  Hence,  Mr. 
Templemore  concludes  that  the  G  on  my  salt- 
cellar is  for  Gouffier.  I  agree  with  him,  and 
shall  call  my  Henri-deux  ware  'Pottery  of 
Oiron  in  Poitou.'  " 

The  letter  concluded  with  some  compliments 
to  Paul's  success  and  industry  in  other  re- 
spects, enclosed  a  check  for  two  hundred 
pounds,  to  make  up  for  loss  of  time,  and  lest 
he  should  accuse  his  uncle  of  partiality,  was 
accompanied  by  a  printed  copy  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  catalogue.  Paul's  voice  never  faltered, 
his  cheek  never  blanched,  his  eye  remained 
firm  as  he  read  this  letter.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
loQj^ed  blank;  Mrs.  Luan  bewiUered ;  and 
Dora  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept. 

"  Come,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "  that  will 
mend  nothing.  Let  us  look  at  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  catalogue." 

Perhaps  that  was  the  hardest  trial  of  all — 
perhaps  it  was  too  hard.  Dora,  who  had 
checked  her  tears  to  look  at  her  bi-other,  read 
■with  the  keenest  pain  the  meaning  of  his  face. 
Defeated  was  written  there.  Ay,  Paul  Cour- 
tenay felt  doubly  defeated,  for  he  felt  that 
his  uncle's  sentence  was  just,  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  victory  complete.     He  shut  the  book 


with  some  emotion,  took  his  gloves,  looked 
for  his  hat,  and  saying  rather  hurriedly,  "  I 
shall  be  late,"  he  left  them.  They  were  all 
silent  after  he  was  gone.  They  all  knew — 
even  Mrs.  Luan  knew  it— that  a  thunderbolt 
had  fallen,  and  that  this  young  tree,  so  green, 
so  fresh  a  few  weeks  back,  was  riven. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  lamented  over  the  loss  of 
Mr.  Courtenay's  fortune,  as  if  she  had  ex- 
pected Paul  to  enter  into  possession  of  it  the 
next  day,  and  he  had  been  unkindly  deprived 
of  it.  Mrs.  Luan,  who  never  said  much, 
seemed  to  have  grown  dumb ;  and  Dora,  the 
light,  gay  Dora,  was  gloomy,  and  surreptitiously 
took  Mr.  Templemore's  catalogue,  and  went 
up  with  it  to  her  brother's  room,  the  only 
place  where  she  knew  that  she  could  look  at  it 
in  peace.  She  sat  by  the  window,  whence  she 
could  see,  if  she  chose,  the  distant  bay,  with 
the  sea  melting  away  into  a  soft,  gray  sky ; 
but  little  charm  had  that  grand  prospect  for 
Dora  now.  She,  too,  for  once,  wanted  to  be 
miserable,  and  she  had  her  wish.  The  cata- 
logue was  a  wonderful  catalogue.  It  was 
magnificently  printed,  and  the  illustrations 
were  beautiful — mere  woodcuts,  indeed,  but 
executed  by  a  practised  hand,  and  with  a 
vigor  and  a  spirit  which  Dora,  who  drew  well, 
could  appreciate.  The  text,  however,  was  the 
criterion  of  Mr.  Templemore's  work;  and 
there  too,  alas !  he  far  surpassed  her  brother. 
Paul's  taste  for  virtu  was  a  fictitious,  acquired 
taste ;  Mr.  Templemore's  was  evidently  a  natu- 
ral ^ft,  matured  by  long,  careful  cultivation. 
Dora  could  not  tell  how  far  he  was  right  in  his 
theory  concerning  the  Henri-deux  ware,  but 
she  was  obliged  to  confess  that  it  was  infi- 
nitely more  plausible  than  her  brother's.  Mr. 
Templemore's  superiority  in  other  matters  she 
also  ascertained ;  but  she  could  not  go  to  the 
end  of  the  painful  task.  She  threw  the  book 
away  in  a  passion  of  resentment  and  grief, 
and  burst  into  a  flood  of  bitter  tears. 

Slow  and  miserable  was  the  rest  of  this  un- 


22 


DORA. 


happy  day.  Paul  came  borne  very  late,  but 
he  found  Dora  sitting  up  for  him  in  the  par- 
lor. He  looked  scarcely  pleased.  Perhaps 
he  was  in  cue  of  those  moods  when  silence 
and  solitude  are  most  acceptable.  Yet  Dora 
was  not  troublesome.  She  did  not  intrude  ad- 
vice or  consolation.  She  only  looked  at  him 
with  gentle,  loving  eyes,  until  his  heart  smote 
him  for  the  coldness  of  his  averted  glances, 
and  he  beckoned  her  to  his  side.  At  once  she 
came,  and  twining  her  arm  around  his  neck, 
laid  her  cheek  to  his. 

"  Poor  Dora  !  "  he  said,  kindly,  "  you  have 
all  the  sorrow,  as  you  had  all  the  trouble.  But 
do  not  fret  for  me.  I  shall  do.  It  is  all 
over ! " 

"  You  saw  her?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  wrote  to  her.  She  had  never 
been  pledged  to  me,  but  for  all  that  I  set  her 
free.  I  foncy  she  will  marry  soon — I  trust  she 
will  be  happy,  dear  girl !  " 

Dora's  eyes  flashed.  Happy  with  another  ! 
— oh  !  how  could  Paul  say  that  ? — how  could 
he  feel  it  ?  But  he  did  feel  it.  Perhaps  his 
was  the  disinterested  love  which  is  as  rare  as 
true  love  itself;  perhaps  it  was  not  very  deep 
love,  after  all,  and  could  be  resigned  easily  to 
loss  and  separation, 

"  But  you,  Paul,"  she  said,  "  how  will  you 
feel  ?  " 

"  Unhappy  for  a  time,  then  T  shall  grow 
comforted,  no  doubt.  But,  Dora,  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  ever  marry." 

"  Then  if  you  do  not,  I  will  not  either,"  she 
said,  impetuously — "  never,  Paul !  " 

"  Never  ! — what  will  John  say  to  that  ?  " 

"John  may  say  what  he  pleases — I  do  not 
care  about  him.  Besides,  I  would  not  marry 
my  cousin." 

"  Well,  time  will  show  wdiat  either  of  us 
will  do ;  and  now,  Dora,  it  is  late — go  to  bed, 
dear." 

"  Why  should  I  not  sit  up  here  with  you  ? — 
we  used  to  sit  up  for  the  catalogue,  hoping 


and  dreaming.  Why  should  we  not  sit  up 
now,  regretting  and  lamenting  together  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  talk  about  it,"  he  said,  iu  a  low 
tone.  "  I  wish  I  could — it  would  be  better 
for  me — but  I  cannot." 

"And  what  will  you  do  about  that  money, 
Paul  ?  "  asked  Dora,  with  flashing  eyes  ;  "  you 
will  not  keep  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Dora,  I  will.  My  first  impulse  was 
to  return  it,  and  if  Mr.  Courtenay's  decision 
had  been  an  unjust  one — ^not  a  farthing  of  it 
would  I  touch.  But  there  is  the  hardship  of 
my  case.  I  cannot  think  myself  an  ill-used 
man  ;  I  had  a  chance  given  me,  and  I  lost  it. 
It  was  fair  play,  Dora.  I  should  only  display 
a  small,  silly  pride,  if  I  were  to  refuse  this 
gift  of  a  relative  who  meant  me  kindly." 

Dora  was  silent.  She  seldom  opposed  any 
decision  of  her  brother's.  To  please  and  obey 
him  was  the  law  of  her  life,  and  when  he 
again  said  that  it  was  late,  she  took  the  hint 
and  left  him.  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  ali-eady 
fast  asleep,  but  Dora  could  not  go  to  bed  at 
once.  She  could  not  forget  Paul,  sitting  by 
the  lonely  hearth  below,  and  mourning  over 
his  lost  love  and  lost  fortune,  both  wrecked 
in  the  same  little  tempest — httle  to  the  cold 
world  looking  on — to  him  how  grievous  and 
how  sad !  At  length  he  came  up-stairs,  but 
he,  too,  stayed  sitting  up.  What  was  he 
doing  ?  Dora  stole  out  on  the  dark  landing, 
and  listened  at  her  brother's  door.  She  heard 
a  chair  moving  slightly.  Paul  was  sitting, 
then ;  yet  if  he  wanted  to  sit  up,  might  he  not 
have  stayed  below  ?  His  light  was  not  out, 
Dora  looked  in  at  him  through  the  keyhole, 
then  stole  back  to  her  room  with  a  deep  sigh : 
Paul  was  reading  the  catalogue. 

That  catalogue  became  the  unhappy  yoimg 
man's  retrospective  torment.  He  never  read 
it  in  the  presence  of  the  family,  yet  Dora  knew 
that  he  studied  it  night  and  morning.  He 
gave  the  day  to  the  law ;  the  hours  which 
were  his  he  devoted  to  this  morbid  brooding 


JOHN  LUAN'S  VISIT   TO   LONDON. 


23 


over  the  past.  There  was  no  doubt  a  sort  of 
dreary  satisfaction  in  comparing  his  own  fruit- 
less attempt  with  his  rival's  sure  effort,  in 
thinking,  "  I  should  have  succeeded  if  I  had 
done  this,  and  I  failed  just  by  that  hair's- 
breadth."  If  Dora  had  dared,  she  would  have 
remonstrated  with  him,  but  she  did  not  ven- 
ture to  do  so.  It  was  Paul's  misfortune  that 
he  must  suffer  in  silence. 

If  anything  could  have  added  new  bitterness 
to  his  regret,  it  was  the  sudden  decease  of  Mr. 
Courtenay.  He  died  at  Deenah  toward  the 
close  of  the  year.  By  his  will  he  left  the  bulk 
of  his  property  to  Mr.  Templemore.  To  Dora, 
Paul,  and  John  he  left  five  hundred  pounds 
apiece.  Neither  his  sister,  Mrs.  Luan,  nor  his 
sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  was  mentioned 
in  Mr,  Courtenay's  will. 

"A  very  strange,  uncivil  man,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  stiffly. 

Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  most  reason  to  com- 
plain, said  nothing,  but  she  thought — 

"  John  can  go  to  London  now." 

How  that  thought  passed  from  Mrs.  Luan's 
mind  to  John's  no  one  ever  knew,  not  even 
John  himself;  but  he  entered  the  cottage  one 
evening  overflowing  with  the  project,  and  find- 
ing Dora  sitting  alone  by  the  fire,  and  looking 
rather  pensive,  he  came  up  to  her  with  the 
question — 

"  Anything  new,  Dora  ?  " 

"Nothing,"  she  replied,  gravely,  "only  I 
was  thinking  about  our  five  hundred  pounds. 
Mr.  Ryan  says  he  could  double  the  amount  for 
us  in  no  time." 

"  I  mean  to  go  to  London  with  mine,"  said 
John. 

"  To  London !  " 

If  he  had  said  to  Timbuctoo,  Dora  could 
scarcely  have  looked  more  surprised. 

"  Yes,  for  my  profession.  It  will  be  such  an 
advantage  to  me." 

John  thrust  his  fingers  through  bis  fair 
locks,  and   looked  like  a  man  who  has  five 


hundred  pounds,  and  knows  his  status  in  so- 
ciety. 

"An  advantage  to  leave  us,"  gently  replied 
Dora. 

She  only  thought  of  the  cousinship,  of  the 
old  familiarity,  of  the  friendship  which  had 
grown  with  years,  and  were  to  be  now  all  put 
by ;  but  her  gentle  voice,  and  her  mild,  re- 
proachful look,  said  far  more  than  this  to 
John  Luan.  He  turned  red  and  pale,  and 
trembled. 

"  Dora,"  he  faltered,  "we  are  too  young — 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Too  young  for  what  ?  "  asked  Dora,  ris- 
ing, and  standing  straight  before  him. 

She  spoke  so  coldly,  she  looked  so  lofty, 
that  John  was  dumb ;  but  if  anything  had  been 
needed  to  urge  him  to  go  to  London,  that  look 
and  that  question  of  Doi-a's  would  have  done 
it.  He  sat  down  without  answering  her,  and 
looked  rather  sullen  and  discomfited.  When 
his  mother  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  came  in,  he 
spoke  of  his  journey  as  a  settled  thing.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  lifted  up  her  hands  in  amazement. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  said,  raising  her  little 
shrill  voice,  "  what  can  take  you  to  London  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Courtenay's  five  hundred  pounds, 
aunt,"  answered  John,  rather  carelessly. 

"  But  Mr.  Ryan  would  double  it  for  j'ou," 
cried  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  he  would  treble  it, 
John,"  she  added,  with  a  little  scream  of  de- 
light at  the  prospect  of  such  doubling  and 
trebling,  which  is  indeed  very  delightful  whilst 
it  takes  place  on  the  increasing  and  not  on  the 
decreasing  principle.  It  is  charming  to  multi- 
ply your  capital  by  three,  but  such  multiplica- 
tion sometimes  ends  by  the  division  of  your 
sum  total,  and  then,  alas !  it  is  grievous 
enough.  Such  lamentable  results  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay by  no  means  contemplated,  and  she 
candidly  wondered  at  John's  obstinacy  in  not 
letting  his  five  hundred  pounds  be  trebled  by 
Mr.  Ryan. 

"Mr.  Rvan  would  not  take  the  trouble," 


24 


DORA. 


replied  John,  trying  to  get  out  of  it  tliis 
way. 

"  Oh,  yes  he  will,  if  I  ask  him." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  ask  him,  mamma,"  said 
Dora,  a  little  tartly.     "  John  wants  to  go." 

John  hung  his  head  and  looked  sheepish  ; 
but  it  was  true  enough,  he  wanted  to  go,  and 
he  went. 

When  it  came  to  the  parting  Dora  forgave 
him.  She  could  not  go  with  him  to  the  sta- 
tion, for  Mrs.  Coiu-tenay  was  unwell,  but  she 
clung  to  him  rather  fondly  as  he  bade  her 
adieu  at  the  end  of  the  garden,  where  the  cab 
stood  waiting. 

"  Good-by,  old  Johnny!"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh.     "  I  know  you  will  never  come  back." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  he  interrupted,  "  Good-by, 
my  dear  girl !  " 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes  as  he  kissed  her. 
Perhaps,  seeing  her  so  kind,  John  Luan  was 
sorry  to  be  going,  after  all. 

"  You'll  be  late,"  said  his  mother,  who  did 
did  not  like  that  parting. 

John  looked  at  his  watch,  kissed  his  cousin 
again,  and  entered  the  cab  with  Mrs.  Luan. 
His  last  words  were — 

"  I  shall  come  back  sooner  than  you  think, 
Dora." 

•'  Poor  Johnny  ! "  she  thought,  as  the  cab 
drove  away ;  "  he  means  it,  but  he  will  not 
come  back." 

When  Mrs.  Luan  returned  from  the  station 
she  looked  flushed  and  excited.  This  parting, 
•  the  first  which  had  ever  taken  place  between 
her  and  her  son,  had  been  too  much  for  her. 
Her  mind  had  not  perhaps  realized  its  keen 
agony  until  she  was  called  upon  to  endure  it. 
Dora  looked  at  her  with  gentle  pity,  but  there 
was  a  sort  of  sternness  in  Mrs.  Luan's  eyes  as 
she  returned  the  look.  That  bright  hair  and 
those  pink  cheeks  had  divided  her  from  her 
darling,  and  she  hated  them.  There  is  a 
strange  inability  in  some  natures  to  under- 
stand other  natures-     It  was  then,  and  was 


ever  afterward,  impossible  to  Dora  to  under- 
stand this  woman,  whom  she  had  known  all 
her  life.  She  saw  that  she  was  grieving  for 
her  son,  but  she  did  not  understand  the  na- 
ture of  that  grief. 

"  Dear  aunt,"  she  said,  going  and  sitting 
down  by  her,  "  you  must  not  fret.  It  is  in 
the  nature  of  young  men,  I  suppose,  to  leave 
those  whom  they  love  best.  I  dare  say  John 
has  been  thinking  about  that  a  long  time,  and 
M'hen  he  got  these  five  hundred  pounds  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation." 

Tljis  soothing  speech  Mrs.  Luan  did  not  an- 
swer, but,  to  Dora's  surprise,  she  rose,  took 
off  her  cap,  and  flung  it  to  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  saying, 

"  Oh,  my  head  is  so  hot ! " 

To  take  oif  her  cap  and  throw  it  about 
became  one  of  Mrs.  Luan's  habits  from  that 
day  forth. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

It  may  be  that  Paul  Courtenay  had  hoped 
to  the  last,  and  that  his  uncle's  will  was  a 
blow  to  him.  It  seemed  to  Dora  that  he 
looked  sadder  and  graver  after  John's  depar- 
ture than  he  had  ever  looked  before.  She 
watched  him  closely,  and  thought  that  he  was 
both  pale  and  grave  when  he  came  home  one 
evening  in  the  spring  that  followed  Mr.  Cour- 
tenay's  death.  A  book  lay  open  before  him, 
and  he  never  once  turned  its  pages. 

"  Something  new  has  happened,"  thought 
Dora. 

Mr.  Ryan's  entrance  helped  to  divert  her 
thoughts.  Mr.  Ryan  often  came  to  see  them 
of  an  evening  now.  He  had  invested  their 
thousand  pounds  in  some  wonderful  mannei, 
and  the  doubling  or  trebling  was  going  on 
amazingly.  Mrs,  Courtenay,  who  took  the 
deepest  interest  in  that  process,  could  not 
weary  of  the  subject,  and  tried  many  a  pa- 
tience for  its  sake.     She  called  it  "it,"  and 


FLORENCE   GALE'S   MARRIAGE. 


25 


never  specified  it  by  any  other  term.  So  al- 
most her  first  words  to  Mr.  Eyan  this  evening 
were, 

"  Well,  Mr.  Ryan,  how  is  it  going  on  ?  " 

"  Nobly  ! "  was  Mr.  Ryan's  emphatic  reply. 

"  Well,  but  when  am  I  to  be  rich  ?  "  asked 
Dora,  a  little  tartly.  "I  want  to  sit  down, 
and  fold  my  hands,  and  be  a  useless  fine  lady, 
Mr.  Ryan." 

"  Oh !  you  girl ! " 

"  My  dear,  did  you  not  hear  Mr.  Ryan  say- 
ing it  was  going  on  nobly  ?  "  remarked  her 
mother,  with  gentle  reproof.  "  Now,  when  a 
thing  like  that  goes  on  nobly,"  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  raising  her  voice,  and  clasping  her 
hands  with  a  sort  of  childish  delight,  "  I  call 
it  beautiful." 

"  Paul,  what  do  you  say  to  it  ?  "  whispered 
Dora.     "  Are  we  to  be  rich  ?  " 

She  bent  over  his  shoulder,  aad  looked  in 
his  face.    He  smiled  gravely. 

"  Do  yon  wish  to  be  rich,  Dora  ?  "  he  asked. 

Dora  had  had  that  wish ;  not  that  wealth 
was  very  dear  to  her  for  its  own  sake,  but  be- 
cause she  loved  her  brother.  But  now  that 
Paul  was  to  be  poor,  and  that  Deenah  was 
gone,  it  seemed  to  her  that  money  was  of  little 
worth. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  hesitatingly  replied, 
"  yet  I  suppose  it  must  be  pleasant." 

"  Pleasant !  "  a  little  indignantly  remarked 
Mr.  Ryan.  He  had  money,  plenty  said  the 
world,  and  he  did  not  like  to  hear  Mammon 
slighted  and  called  pleasant. 

"  You  are  quite  ridiculous,  my  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay. 

But  Dora  did  not  heed  them.  She  had  re- 
turned to  her  chair,  and  thence  she  looked  at 
Paul  so  grave,  so  sad,  and  she  felt  again, 
"  Something  new  has  happened."  She  knew 
what  had  happened  three  days  later.  On  the 
morning  of  Mr.  Ryan's  visit  Florence  Gale  had 
married  a  Mr.  Logan,  very  rich,  said  report, 
and  young  and  handsome,  it  added.    So  it  was 


probable  that  Mrs.  Logan  had  not  been  made 
a  martyr  to  filial  obedience,  after  all.  Of  this 
Paul  said  nothing  to  his  sister.  He  had  closed 
the  book  of  his  life  at  the  page  where  love  and 
hope  had  each  written  bis  sad  vhit,  and  ho 
opened  it  again  at  the  page  of  hard  work  and 
lawful  ambition.  He  was  grave,  and  by.  no 
means  cheerful,  but  he  was  neither  nervous 
nor  melancholy.  He  bore  his  lot  manfully, 
and  Mr.  Courtenay's  fortune  and  the  catalogue 
and  Florence  Gale  were  soon  as  things  that 
had  never  been  at  Mrs.  Courtenay's  cottage. 

Seeing  him  thus,  Dora  gradually  became  as 
bright  and  as  radiant  as  ever.  Joy  had  return- 
ed to  her,  and  she  would  not  let  the  lovely 
guest  be  gone.  She  read,  she  sang.  She  woke 
music  from  her  old  spinet,  she  was  house- 
keeper and  a  young  lady,  and  she  was  as 
happy  as  the  day  was  long.  Early  one  summer 
evening  Paul  came  home.  He  found  his  sister 
in  the  garden  watering  her  flowers.  She 
turned  round  on  hearing  him,  and  became 
suddenly  silent. 

"  Paul !  how  pale  you  are  ! "  she  said,  a  little 
anxiously. 

"  Am  I  ? "  he  cheerfully  replied,  "  I  feel 
very  well,  however.  I  have  just  met  Mrs. 
Logan,"  he  added;  "she  looked  both  lovely 
and  happy.  She  came  and  shook  hands  with 
me,  and  looked  as  light-hearted  as  a  butter- 
fly." 

"  I  never  liked  her,"  resentfully  cried  Dora ; 
"  she  was  never  worthy  of  you." 

"  It  was  not  her  fault,  Dora,  if  I  was  mis- 
taken in  her ;  but  it  was  mine." 

"  How  she  lured  you  on  about  that  cata- 
logue," continued  Dora,  "  and  then  how  soon 
she  forsook  you  I " 

"  She  was  not  pledged  to  me." 

"  True  love  needs  no  pledges,"  loftily  replied 
Dora. 

"  But  suppose  some  women  cannot  feel  true 
love,"  he  playfully  suggested.  "  Are  you  sure 
of  yourself,  Dora  ?  " 


26 


DORA. 


"No,"  she  honestly  answered,  "for  I  can- 
not imagine  I  shall  ever  care  for  any  one  as  I 
care  for  you,  Paul.  And  if  you  do  not  mar- 
ry," she  added,  warmly,  "  I  never  shall — 
never ! " 
*  Paul  smiled,  but  he  thought  it  unlikely  that 
either  he  or  his  sister  should  ever  marry.  He 
felt  no  incUnation  for  wedded  life,  and  Dora 
was  proud  and  poor,  and  lived  in  such  seclu- 
sion that  the  male  sex  might  well  be  forgiven 
if  they  did  not  appreciate  her  merits. 

"  '"Well,  little  Dora,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "  we 
shall  be  none  the  more  unhappy  for  it,  if  it  is 
to  be." 

"  Unhappy  !    I  should  think  not." 

She  raised  her  face  for  a  kiss,  whicli  she 
got,  and  perhaps,  as  she  received  it,  Dora  felt 
some  little  jealous  joy  at  the  thought  that 
the  day  of  Florence  Gale  had  gone  by,  and 
her  own  had  come  back. 

Paul  retired  early  that  evening.  He  was  a 
little  tired,  he  said,  and  Dora  could  not  waken 
him  by  playing  on  her  "  piano,"  as  she  and 
every  one  at  home  called  it,  by  one  of  those 
convenient  fictions  in  which  it  is  pleasant  for 
the  poor  to  indulge.  She  sat  and  sewed  by 
the  light  of  the  solitary  candle,  whilst  Mrs. 
Courtenay  tried  her  patience,  and  nodded  over 
it,  and  Mrs.  Luan  pored  over  a  letter  from 
"  poor  John."  A  loud  ring  at  the  garden  bell 
startled  them  all. 

"Light  the  other  caudle!"  cried  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, wakening  up  with  an  alarmed  start ;  but 
before  Dora  could  obey  that  prudent  order, 
the  heedless  little  servant-girl  had  admitted 
Mr.  Ryan,  who  burst  in  upon  them  hke  a  tem- 
pest. 

"  Ntews,  news ! "  he  shouted,  waving  his  hat 
in  the  wildest  excitement. 

"  How  is  it  going  on  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, breathlessly. 

"  Grandly !  Paul  and  Dora  have  two  hun- 
dred a  year  each.  It  has  been  coming  on 
these  six  months.     I  sold  out   and  mvested 


again  this  very  afternoon — two  hundred  a  year 
each  ! " 

A  thousand  pounds  had  given  them  two 
hundred  a  year  each !  Ignorant  as  she  was  of 
money  matters,  Dora  knew  that  this  was  grand 
trebling  indeed.  The  tidings  so  bewildered 
her  that  she  stood  still  and  mute.  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, on  the  contrary,  uttered  three  little 
screams  of  delight ;  whilst  Mrs.  Luan  took  oif 
her  cap  and  flung  it  at  Mr.  Ryan,  on  whose 
head  it  alighted  sideways,  giving  his  red  face 
a  waggish  and  knowing  aspect. 

This  sobered  them  all. 

"  Is  the  woman  mad  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Ryan, 
staring,  and  taking  off  Mrs.  Luan's  cap  with 
some  indignation. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mrs.  Luan, 
calmly.     "  I  meant  to  throw  it  on  the  table." 

"  Did  you,  though !  I  wonder  why  it  flew 
up  upon  me,  then !  And  pray,  ma'am,  why 
did  you  take  off  your  cap  at  all,  and  fling  it 
about  so  ?  " 

"  My  head  is  so  hot,"  she  replied,  staring  at 
him,  "  and  you  upset  me  with  your  two  hun- 
dred a  year." 

"  Yes,  yes ;  your  son  John  has  made  ducks 
and  drakes  of  his  money — I  know — I  know." 

And  Mr.  Ryan  humanely  considered  that 
this  disappointment  was  a  sufiicient  explana- 
tion of  the  cap  affair,  as  he  called  it,  when  he 
related  the  incident  to  his  sister.  Miss  Ryan, 
who  was  then  on  a  visit  to  him. 

"  Oh  I  how  you  have  trebled  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  raising  her  voice  and  her  hands 
in  admiration.  "  How  you  have  trebled,  Mr. 
Ryan ! " 

"  Dear  Paul,"  said  Dora,  as  happy  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes  ;  "  he  has  been  working  too 
hard,  but  he  can  rest  now." 

"  Oh !  you  girl !  A  young  man  can  never 
work  too  hard." 

"And  I  say  that  Paul  has  been  working  too 
hard,"  replied  Dora ;  "  but  I  must  go  and  tell 
him  the  news.     A  fairy  tale — a  real  fairy  tale ! " 


PAUL  COURTENAY'S  DEATH. 


27 


She  lightly  ran  up-stairs,  leaving  her  mother 
iu  ecstasies,  and  Mrs.  Luan  settling  her  cap 
on,  but  looking  very  dull  and  gray.  What 
had  become  of  John's  five  hundred  pounds  by 
this  time  ?  And  why  had  she  sent  him  away 
from  Dora,  who  had  two  hundred  a  year  now  ? 
Was  this  the  end  of  her  planning  ?  Oh  !  if 
she  had  but  waited  ! 

"I  shall  not  waken  him  if  he  sleeps," 
thought  Dora ;  "  but  if  he  is  awake,  I  will  tell 
him  with  a  kiss.  Paul,  my  darling,  we  are 
rich  now.  We  can  afford  not  to  think  any 
more  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  fortune.  And  with 
two  hundred  a  year  and  your  profession  you 
can  find  a  wife — a  true  good  wife — not  a 
Florence  Gale,  who  could  forget  you  for  a  Mr. 
Logan." 

With  a  noiseless  foot  she  entered  his  room. 
It' was  dark,  and  the  light  she  held  fell  on  the 
pillow  where  his  calm  face  lay  sleeping.  She 
put  the  candlestick  down  and  softly  stole  tow- 
ard him.  When  she  stood  by  his  side  she 
looked  at  him  with  eyes  swimming  in  tears. 
How  altered  he  was  since  the  day  when  he 
had  come  back  from  Deenah,  full  of  eager 
hope  !  How  pale  and  thin  and  worn  he  looked 
in  his  sleep !  And  what  had  he  been  read- 
ing ? — that  dreadful  catalogue  again  !  ■  She 
knelt  on  the  rug.  and  softly  took  his  hand, 
which  hung  loosely  outside  the  bedclothes. 
But  scarcely  had  she  touched  it  when  she 
started  up  and  uttered  a  piercing  cry.  That 
hand  was  cold — cold  as  marble;  and,  alas! 
that  cry,  though  it  filled  the  house  and  brought 
up  its  terrified  tenants  around  her,  did  not 
waken  her  brother.  Never,  never  more  would 
Paul  draw  her  to  his  side  and  call  her  his  little 
Dora.  Brother  and  sister,  whom  nothing  was 
to  divide,  were  parted  thus  early  on  their 
journey  ;  and  whilst  one  took  his  rest,  having 
earned  his  wages,  the  other  was  to  go  on  the 
sad  pilgrimage  alone  and  desolate  ! 

"My  brother,  my  brother!"  was  all  she 
could  say.     For  weeks  this  was  her  cry,  for 


years  it  rang  in  her  heart,  "  My  brother  ! "  In 
every  hour  of  tribulation  the  sorrowful  words 
were  spoken. 

Every  one  grieved  for  this  young  man,  Mrs. 
Courtenay  mourned  for  him  as  for  a  son.  Mrs. 
Luan  shed  genuine  tears,  and  remembered 
with  a  pang  that  his  death  gave  Dora  four 
hundred  a  year.  Mr,  Ryan  did  not  weary  of 
lamenting  "  the  poor  boy's  untimely  fate ; " 
but  of  all  those  who  could  say,  "  Thus  died 
Paul  Courtenay,"  none  knew  that  with  him 
died  the  pride  and  the  ambition  of  his  sister's 
heart.  She  had  loved  him,  but  she  had  also 
hoped  in  him.  He  had  been,  though  she 
knew  it  not,  perhaps,  the  great  stake  in  her 
life.  All  her  hopes  and  her  desires  had  rested 
upon  him,  never  once  upon  herself.  Through 
him  she  was  to  be  honored,  in  his  reflected 
glory  she  was  to  shine.  Of  her  own  value  and 
her  own  part  in  the  great  human  drama  she 
never  thought.-  When  he  went,  all  went  with 
him.  It  might  be  well  for  both  of  them  that 
it  should  be  so.  He  never  knew  the  bitter- 
ness of  disappointment,  nor  she  that  of  a  sud- 
den wakening.  He  was  her  hero  now  for  ever. 
He  was  to  have  been  a  great  orator,  the  rich 
man,  the  pride  and  stay  of  his  family.  How 
often  had  the  triumphs  of  Demosthenes,  of 
Chatham  and  Grattan,  made  her  heart  throb  ! 
How  often  had  she  sat  at  twilight,  by  the  open 
window,  or  over  the  smouldering  fire,  listening 
to  her  brother's  fervid  eloquence,  to  the  mur- 
murs of  applause  and  the  deafening  cheers  of 
a  senate,  whilst  her  mother  chatted  prettily  or 
her  aunt  stitched  at  her  patchwork  ! 

All  this  was  over  now ;  but  better  perhaps 
that  death  had  stepped  in,  silencing  the  elo- 
quent lips  with  an  icy  hand,  than  that  Time, 
the  great  disenchanter,  should  have  shown  to 
Paul  and  his  sister  the  folly  of  a  long-cherished 
dream. 

But  this  Dora  never  felt,  and  never  was  to 
feel.  The  object  of  her  adoration  was  safe 
I'rom  a  fiite  so  grievous.     Yet  perhaps  because 


28 


DORA. 


she  had  loved  him  so  fondly,  and  hoped  in 
him  so  fervently,  veas  her  grief  felt  and  not 
spoken.  To  all  seeming,  indeed,  it  was  not  a 
deep  grief.  She  mourned,  but  not  with  such 
a  sorrow  as  her  impassioned  love  ought  to 
have  called  forth.  So  thought  Mr.  Ryan,  and 
even  her  mother.  Dora  was  pale  and  thin, 
but  she  smiled  brightly,  nay,  she  laughed — 
why,  she  actually  sang  again,  though  Paul 
was  in  his  gi'ave.  She  sang  his  songs,  too — 
not  plaintive,  but  merry  Irish  melodies,  which 
had  been  dear  to  him. 

"  The  Irish  are  a  light-hearted  people,  Mr. 
Ryan,"  solemnly  said  Mrs.  Courtenay  to  her 
friend. 

Mr.  Ryan  did  not  answer  this  national  ques- 
tion, but  listening  to  Dora's  singing  up-stairs 
in  Paul's  room,  he  thought,  "  That  girl  puzzles 
me."  He  also  thought  that  he  would  study 
her,  but  the  opportunity  to  do  so  was  not 
granted  to  Mr.  Ryan. 

Paul  had  not  long  been  dead,  when  Mrs. 
Courtenay  said  to  her  daughter  one  after- 
noon, 

"  I  am  sure  it  was  this  dreadful  climate  that 
killed  my  poor  boy." 

"  But,  mamma,  Paul's  was  a  heart-com- 
plaint." 

"  Of  course  it  was ;  well,  the  climate  killed 
him — and  I  am  sure  I  have  a  heart-complaint 
too." 

"  Dear  mamma,  I  cannot ,  think  that.  My 
dear  brother  was  so  pale,  and  you  have  a 
lovely  color." 

"  But  such  dreadful  palpitations  !  "  sighed 
Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  oh !  such  dreadful  palpi- 
tations !  " 

Dora  put  down  her  work  and  fell  into  the 
saddest  dream.  Paul  had  never  complained 
of  palpitations,  but  said  he  was  well  to  the 
last. 

"I  want  a  change,"  pursued  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay; "and  I  think  I  shall  go  to  London." 

"  To  London  !  "  cried  Dora,  much  startled. 


"  Yes,  London  air  always  agreed  with  me.'' 

"  But,  mamma,  London  air  is  surely  not 
good  air  ?  " 

"  Bcaiiti^ul  air ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
raising  her  voice  with  enthusiasm. 

Dora  looked  at  her  aunt.  "Was  it  she  who, 
to  be  with  her  son,  had  suggested  so  strange  a 
step  to  her  mother;  but  Mrs.  Luan  stitched 
on  stolidly  at  her  patchwork,  and  said, 

"  There  is  no  air  like  Dublin  air." 

"  Do  listen  to  her !  "  compassionately  ex- 
clauned  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  No  air  like  Dublin 
air  !     Poor  thing  !  " 

"  Then  aunt  had  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
thought  Dora,  in  her  innocence. 

She  tried  to  oppose  Mrs.  Courtenay's  wish ; 
Mr.  Ryan  also  interfered,  but  to  no  purpose — 
there  was  a  secret  agency  at  work  more  potent 
than  they  knew  of.  Mrs.  Luan's  plan  was  of 
the  simplest  kind.  She  asked  her  sister-in- 
law  daily  how  she  was,  and  if  she  felt  quite 
well.  She  put  these  questions  when  Dora  was 
not  present,  and  with  them,  and  a  few  care- 
less hints,  she  carried  the  day,  and  the  London 
journey  was  decided  upon.  The  cottage  was 
given  up,  the  furniture  was  sold  off,  and  on 
the  morning  of  the  day  when  they  were  to  go 
to  Kingston,  thence  to  sail  for  Holyhead,  Dora 
went  alone  to  Glasnevin. 

A  plain  head-stone  marked  Paul  Courtenay's 
grave.  His  name  and  age,  and  the  word 
Requiescat,  were  his  only  epitaph.  Grass  and 
a  few  flowers  already  grew  over  him.  As  she 
looked  at  that  narrow  space,  at  those  few  feet 
of  earth  which  held  all  that  had  been  dearest 
to  her,  Dora's  heart  overflowed  with  other  feel- 
ings than  those  of  sorrow.  There  came  to  her 
in  that  sad  hour  a  bitterness  which  she  could 
not  restrain.  She  remembered  her  uncle,  who 
had  tempted  Paul  in  his  poverty,  and  urged 
him  to  a  task  beyond  his  ability  ;  she  remem- 
bered Florence  Gale,  who  had  spurred  him  on 
to  labor  beyond  his  strength,  then  forgotten 
him ;  she  remembered  Mr.  Templemore,  whose 


LOSS   OF   DORA'S  INCOME. 


29 


triumph  had  embittered  even  Paul  Courtenay's 
last  hours  ;  and  to  these  three  she  attributed 
his  premature  death.  "  I  must  forgive  them," 
she  thought ;  "  I  must  forgive  the  hving  as 
well  as  the  dead  ;  but  to  forgive  is  not  to  love, 
and  never,  never  shall  theue  be  kindness  be- 
tween them  and  Paul's  sister!  " 

Alas !  was  this  a  spot,  was  this  an  hour  for 
thoughts  like  these  ?  A  lowering  gray  sky 
bent  over  the  cemetery,  a  southwesterly  wind 
moaned  amongst  the  young  trees  ;  it  had  rained 
all  night,  and  the  sodden  earth  said  how  cold 
and  how  dreary  was  the  bed  of  the  dead.  There 
they  slept  around  Dora  in  hundreds,  jn  thou- 
sands. Did  they  murmur,  did  they  complain  ? 
Life,  its  fever,  its  troubles,  and  its  hundred 
cares  were  over  for  them,  and  was  it  not  well  ? 
If  they  could  have  spoken,  would  not  their 
faint,  low  voices  have  risen  to  reprove  tlie  re- 
sentful girl  who  brought  to  their  peaceful  realm 
the  angry  feelings  of  life  ? 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Mrs.  Courtexay  had  left  Dublin  a  year 
when  Mr.  Ryan  took  a  journey  to  London,  and 
scarcely  giving  hhnself  time  to  dine,  at  once 
entered  a  cab,  and  drove  off  to  see  his  old 
friends. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  lived  in  a  pretty  little  villa 
in  Bayswater ;  a  white  nest,  with  young  green 
trees  around  it.  Mr.  Ryan  gave  the  place  a 
gratified  look  as  he  alighted  and  saw  it  in  the 
clear  moonlight  of  a  cold  spring  evening. 
"  Dora's  bower,"  thought  Mr.Ryan.  A  neat  little 
parlor-maid  opened  the  door  and  admitted 
him.  "  That's  right,"  thought  Mr.  Ryan;  "  no 
page  in  buttons — no  fourth-rate  man-servant, 
but  an  irreproachable  young  woman.  Dora  is 
a  sensible  girl."  The  crimson  staircase  carpet, 
with  il9  brass  rods ;  the  spacious  landing, 
adorned  with  pretty  flower-stands,  confirmed 
this  favorable  impression ;  and  the   drawing- 


room  added  to  it.  A  very  charming  drawing- 
room  it  was,  not  luxurious,  though  graceful 
and  elegant.  "  Dora's  kingdom,"  thought  Mr. 
Ryan  ;  and  when  the  folding-doors  opened,  and 
Dora  entered  the  room,  robed  in  white  silk, 
with  roses  blushing  on  her  bosom,  and  wreathed 
in  her  bright  hair,  she  appeared  in  Mr.  Ryan's 
eyes  as  the  fair  queen  of  that  little  realm.  Mr. 
^yan  looked  at  her  and  at  the  drawing-room, 
and  at  Mrs.  Courtenay's  black  satin  dress — 
nay,  even  at  Mrs.  Luan's  stylish  cap,  with  ad- 
miring eyes.  For  were  not  all  these  luxuries 
and  tokens  of  prosperity  the  result  of  the  four 
hundi'ed  a  year  his  skilful  management  had  se- 
cured to  Dora  Courtenay  ? 

"  Ah  !  ha !  you  were  going  off  to  a  party  ?  " 
he  cried,  gayly;  "why,  even  that  rascal,  John 
Luan,  has  white  kid  gloves  on.  You  did  not 
expect  me,  did"  you,  now  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Mr.  Ryan,"  replied  Mr.^.  Cour- 
tenay, in  a  most  dolorous  tone. 

She  sank  down  on  a  chair  with  a  heavy  sigh. 
Mrs.  Luan  took  a  low  seat,  and  sat  straight 
and  motionless  upon  it.  John  Luan  threw 
himself  on  the  sofa  and  looked  deeply  sulky. 
Dora  alone  remained  standing,  and  she  greeted 
her  old  friend  very  kindly ;  but  something 
ailed  her  too,  for  there  was  a  deep  flush  on  her 
cheek,  very  different  from  its  pure  clear  bloom, 

"  Why,  what  has  happened  ?  "  cried  Mr. 
Ryan,  staring  around  him  in  amazement. 

''  Oh !  we  are  not  going  to  the  party,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  Professor  Gray  has 
just  called  to  tell  us  tj^at  Brown  and  Co.  have 
stopped  payment,  and  that  Mr.  Brown  is  off 
somewhere  or  other  with  poor  Dora's  four  hun- 
dred a  year,  and  other  people's  thousands." 

This  was  news  indeed !  And,  though  Mr. 
Ryan  burst  forth  into  incredulous  exclama- 
tions, very  certain  news,  unfortunately.  Dora's 
money  had  vanished  for  ever  in  the  gulf  of 
Brown  and  Co.'s  diSiculties,  though,  luckily 
for  them  all,  the  little  income  of  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay and  Mrs.  Luan  was  still  safe. 


30 


DORA. 


"  And  we  were  going  to  such  a  nice  party," 
plaintively  said  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  I  almost 
wish  Professor  Gray  had  kept  his  news  till  to- 
morrow." 

"  Professor  Gray  takes  a  strong  interest  in 
Dora,"  ironically  remarked  John.  "  Did  you 
not  see,  axmt,  how  he  changed  color  when  she 
told  him  she  was  penniless,  and  how  crestfallen 
he  looked  as  he  left  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  innocently  I'eplied  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
"  he  is  one  of  Dora's  admirers,  you  know.  And 
so  was  Mr.  Brown.  The  last  time  she  wore  that 
dress  and  these  roses,  he  said  they  were  set  in 
gold." 

"  Brown  is  a  scoundrel ! "  angrily  said 
John. 

Poor  John  Luan  !  For  the  last  year  he,  too, 
had  sighed  at  Dora's  feet!  He,  too,  had 
thought  she  looked  lovely  in  her  white  silk 
dress,  and  with  the  roses  in  her  hair,  and  he 
had  burned  with  jealous  wrath  whenever  Pro- 
fessor Gray  or  the  delinquent  Brown  looked  at 
her.  Of  one  rival  he  was  rid,  and  the  other 
he  suspected  he  need  not  fear ;  but  what 
availed  it  ?  Dora  was  penniless,  and  John 
Luan  as  poor  as  ever.  He  had  come  to  take 
his  aunt  and  cousin  to  the  party,  and  to  wor- 
ship and  admire  Dora,  and  feel  wronged  be- 
cause others  did  as  much  ;  instead  of  which  he 
had  the  doubtful  satisfaction  of  calling  Brown 
a  scoundrel,  and  of  knowing  that  he  could  by 
no  means  afford  to  marry  a  poor  girl  and  keep 
a  wife. 

"  Poor  John !  "  thought  Dora.  "  I  like  him, 
I  admire  Professor  Gray,  and  that  cool,  fair- 
looking  Mr.  Brown  was  very  pleasing  in  his 
way ;  but  the  thought  of  becoming  Mrs.  Luan, 
Mrs.  Gray.^  or  Mrs.  Brown  always  made  me 
shudder.     I  wish  I  could  tell  him  so." 

"  Dear,  dear,  that  is  sad ! "  exclaimed  Mr. 
Eyan,  shaking  his  head  at  Dora.  "  That  is 
sad,  my  poor  girl !  " 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "my  httle  prosperity 
came  like  a  fairy  gift,  anil  like  a  Aiiry  gift  it 


went  away.    But  I  was  born  poor,  you  know, 
and  can  go  back  to  poverty  very  easily." 

John  gazed  admiringly  at  this  young  stoic, 
who  looked  so  serene — and  so  pretty — with 
the  roses  in  her  hair,  and  he  said,  with. sudden 
animation, 

"  It  was  only  yesterday  Thompson  said  I 
was  sure  of  that  appointment.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly go  down  to  Oxfordshire  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Luan  heard  him,  and  looked  at  him 
and  Dora  with  the  sullen  look  of  yore.  For 
the  last  year  she  had,  as  it  were,  wooed  Dora 
for  John,  after  her  own  awkward  fashion. 
And  now  her  labor  was  worse  than  vain,  and 
she  once  more  saw  John  and  Dora  in  a  poor 
cottage,  with  babies  around  them,  whilst  in 
the  background  appeared  a  vision  of  Mr. 
Brown  in  an  express  train,  with  Dora's  four 
hundred  a  year  in  his  carpet-bag. 

"  If  she  had  taken  John  at  once,"  resent- 
fully thought  Mrs.  Luan,  "  her  money  would 
be  all  right ;  and  if  he  had  not  taken  a  fancy 
to  her  his  money  would  not  be  almost  all 
gone." 

"  Dear!  dear  !  "  again  said  Mr.  Ryan,  "it  is 
very  dreadful !  Four  hundred  a  year,  such  a 
nice  little  income ;  and  all  gone — all  gone  ! " 

Yes,  it  was  all  gone,  indeed,  and  with  it 
had  departed  the  new  life  which  had  been  so 
pleasant — the  admirers,  the  parties,  the  intel- 
lectual society,  the  little  luxuries,  the  many 
comforts.  All  these  were  gone,  and  Mr.  Ryan 
no  longer  wielded  that  magic  wand  of  capital 
which  would  conjure  them  back  again.  With 
a  heavy  heart  he  left  his  friends,  and  he  spent 
the  night  in  maturing  plans  for  their  benefit. 

But  when  he  called  the  next  day  Mr.  Ryan 
found  that  everything  had  already  been  settled 
without  the  help  of  his  advice. 

"  It  is  no  use  fretting,  you  know,  Mr.  Ryan," 
said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  airy  fortitude; 
"  staying  in  London  is  out  of  the  question, 
and  Dublin  air  disagrees  with  me,  so  we  shall 
go  to  France." 


THE  FAMILY'S  REMOVAL  TO  FRANCE. 


31 


"  To  France  ! — why,  who  put  that  into  your 
head,  Mrs.  Courtenay  ?  " 

"No  one,"  tartly  replied  that  lady  ;  "  but  I 
am  sure  my  native  air  is  the  very  thing  for 
me." 

Mr.  Ryan  stared.  Mrs.  Luan  was  looking 
at  the  wall,  and  Dora's  eyes  were  downcast. 
John  was  not  present. 

"  And  what  does  John  Luan  say  to  that  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"John  knows  nothing  about  it,"  was  the 
supercilious  reply.  "  He  went  off  to  Oxford- 
shire by  the  first  train,  and  it  was  only  five 
minutes  ago  I  made  up  my  mind  that  Rouen 
was  to  be  our  future  residence.  But  now,  Mr. 
Ryan,  I  have  a  great  favor  to  ask  of  you. 
Mrs.  Luan  and  I  will  go  off  at  once,  and  settle 
our  new  home.  Will  you  kindly  take  care  of 
Dora  here,  and  help  her  to  dispose  of  the  fur- 
niture ?  " 

Mr.  Ryan  tried  to  remonstrate,  but  opposi- 
tion only  confirmed  Mrs.  Courtenay  in  her 
purpose.  Seeing  her  so  determined,  Mr.  Ryan 
desisted.  After  all,  going  to  France  might  not 
be  so  bad  a  plan.  France  was  cheaper  then 
than  it  is  now,  and  economy  must  be  once 
more  the  law  of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  life. 

It  is  always  sad  to  break  up  a  home,  and  so 
Dora  now  found  it,  spite  her  stoicism.  When 
it  bad  been  ascertained  beyond  doubt  that  not 
a  farthing  of  her  money  could  be  recovered, 
Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan  proceeded  to- 
gether to  France.  Once  more  John  Luan's 
mother  consented  to  leave  him,  in  order  to 
separate  him  from  Dora.  She  knew  that  the 
best  way  to  keep  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Dora  in 
their  new  home  was  to  accompany  them.  In- 
deed, she  had  a  strong  presentiment  that  her 
volatile  little  sister-in-law,  if  not  watched, 
might  escape  back  again  to  England.  Rather 
than  run  so  great  a  risk,  Mrs.  Luan  would 
forego  even  bidding  adieu  to  her  son,  who  was 
still  down  in  Oxfordshire,  hunting  for  his  ap- 
pointment. 


A  letter  soon  came  from  Rouen,  informing 
Dora  that  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  discovered  the 
most  delightful  lodging,  with  the  dearest  old 
creature,  and  that  all  she  wanted  to  be  per- 
fectly happy  was  her  dear  Dora's  presence. 

The  furniture  was  disposed  of  to  a  broker, 
so  that  on  receiving  this  letter  Dora  had  but 
to  pack  up  her  trunk  and  leave  the  house 
where  she  had  spent  some  pleasant,  if  not 
happy  hours.  She  went  over  it  alone,  sighing 
gently  at  the  loss  of  her  four  hundred  a  year. 
She  looked  wistfully  at*  the  deserted  drawing- 
room,  which  she  had. taken  such  pleasure  in 
adorning.  Never  more  should  Dora  Courtenay 
see  pleasant,  genial  faces  gathered  there ;  no 
more  should  she  hear  intellectual  and  witty 
talk  within  its  walls.  A  few  letters  from  Mr. 
Ryan  to  a  few  clever  people  in  London,  a  few 
parties,  and  Dora's  bright  happy  face  had  soon 
made  Mrs.  Courtenay's  little  villa  an  attractive 
rendezvous. 

"  But  all  that  is  over  now,"  thought  Dorn, 
as  she  closed  the  door,  and  went  up  to  her  own 
room  ;  "  we  must  return  to  the  old  life.  Ah  I 
if  we  had  but  dear  Paul,  how  welcome  it  would 
be!" 

That  was  the  thought  that  ever  came  back. 
Deep  within  her  heart  slept  the  remembrance 
of  her  great  sorrow,  but  every  now  and  then 
it  woke  again  to  cruel  and  bitter  life.  That 
was  the  thought,  too,  which  had  kept  Dora's 
heart  free.  No  man  seemed  able  to  waken 
within  her  even  a  far  echo  of  that  passionate 
love  which  she  had  once  bestowed  on  her 
brother  Paul.  When  she  looked  at  his  por- 
trait, the  keen  eye,  the  intellectual  brow,  the 
manly  look,  all  seemed  to  say,  "  Find  the  like 
of  us  if  you  can."  Who,  indeed,  could  com- 
pare with  the  lost  hero  of  her  young  worship  ? 

"  Yes,  all  would  be  well  if  I  had  you,"  she 
now  thought,  glancing  toward  the  miniature, 
which  hung  between  the  fireplace  and  her  nar- 
row bed.  "  Oh  !  my  brother  !  my  brother !  " 
she  exclaimed,  as  she  clasped  her  hands  iu 


32 


DOEA. 


sudden  sorrow,  and  could  not  see  that  adored 
image  for  blinding  tears.  "  Why  did  I  lose 
you,  my  brother  ?  " 

Vain  appeal  to  the  inexorable  grave !  Yet 
how  often  will  that  pitiful  cry,  "  My  brother !  " 
be  heard  like  a  wail  in  the  life  of  Dora  Cour- 
tenay !  She  had  sunk  on  a  chair  in  her  grief, 
when  her  room  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Luan 
came  in. 

"Aunt,"  exclaimed  Dora,  much  amazed, 
"  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing.     What  aie  you  crying  for  ?  " 

Dora  did  not  answer.  She  never  could 
speak  of  her  grief.  Mrs.  Luan  took  her  bon- 
net off  and  threw  it  on  a  chair. 

"  You  want  to  stay,"  she  said,  angrily 

"  Aunt,  I  do  not." 

"  Then  you  want  to  go  back  to  Dublin." 

"  Oh  !  no,"  sadly  replied  Dora. 

The  thought  of  returning  to  her  lost  home 
was  exquisitely  painful  to  her.  What  was 
that  home  without  Paul's  dear  presence  to 
cheer  it,  or  fill  it  with  bright  hopes  and  fond 
illusions  ?  Moreover,  in  Dublin  she  must  meet 
Florence,  or  see  Mr.  Templeraore.  She  did 
not  hate  them,  but  they  had  so  filled  her 
brother's  heart  with  grief,  that  this  proud  and 
silent  heart  had  broken,  and  the  spot  that  held 
them  became  to  her  as  the  fatal  gulf,  or  the 
pitiless  rock  where  some  loved  being  has  per- 
ished, to  be  shunned  for  evermore.  But  Mrs. 
Luan  still  looked  at  her  mistrustfully.  She 
had  come  back  to  fetch  her  niece  and  take  her 
away,  actuated  by  one  of  those  wonderful 
maternal  presentiments  which  fail  so  rarely, 
and  she  had  found  John  Luan  below  with  Mr. 
Ryan,  He  had  just  arrived  from  Oxfordshire, 
rather  sulky  and  crestfallen  at  having  failed 
completely  in  his  object,  and  very  indignant 
with  Mrs.  Courtenay  for  taking  her  daughter 
off  to  a  strange  country.  Thus  he  spoke  to 
his  mother  with  the  unconscious  selfishness  of 
the  young.  She  looked  at  him  sullenly.  Why 
did  he  not  think  of  her  going  ?    Why  did  he 


not  want  her  to  stay  with  him  ?  Why  was 
it  aU  about  parting  with  Dora,  and  nothing 
for  the  separation  between  himself  and  his 
mother?  In  this  jealous  mood  Mrs.  Luan 
went  up  to  Dora's  room,  and  seeing  her  tears, 
gave  them  but  one  meaning.  Dora  was  cry- 
ing at  parting  from  John  Luan  !  From  that 
moment  forward  Mrs.  Luan  no  longer  left 
Dora's  side.  She  allowed  Mr.  Ryan  to  settle 
with  the  brokers,  she  suffered  the  furniture  to 
be  removed  and  money  to  be  wasted  and 
squandered  at  a  terrible  rate,  according  to  her 
economical  principles,  and  still  she  stuck  to 
Dora ;  whilst  John  stalked  about  the  house 
with  gloomy  and  sullen  looks,  and  thought  of 
his  lonely  rooms  in  Howland  Street. 

In  one  respect  Mrs.  Luan's  caution  was  not 
needed.  John  had  no  intention  of  making 
open  love  to  Dora.  He  had  not  done  so  when 
she  had  four  hundred  a  year,  and  he  would 
not  do  so  now  that  she  had  not  a  shilling. 
Indeed,  aU  Dora's  admirers,  with  Professor 
Gray  at  their  head,  had  vanished.  Report  ex- 
aggerated her  losses,  and  the  thought  of  mar- 
rying a  whole  family  daunts  most  men. 

"  It  is  well  for  me  I  cared  for  none  of  them," 
thought  Dora,  rather  stung  to  find  how  sud- 
denly her  value  had  fallen. 

And  now  all  was  ready,  and  Dora  and  Mrs. 
Luan  had  but  to  depart.  John  and  Mr.  Ryan 
saw  them  to  the  station. 

"  Good-by,  dear  girl,"  said  Mr.  Ryan,  kind- 
ly ;  "I  shall  keep  my  eye  on  Mr.  Brown,  you 
know,  and  if  anything  turns  up,  why  you  may 
rely  upon  me." 

Dora  could  scarcely  repress  a  smile.  Mr. 
Ryan's  eye  in  London,  or  even  in  Dublin,  did 
not  seem  to  her  very  likely  to  affect  Mr.  Brown 
in  America,  and  she  had  not  the  faintest  hope 
of  anything  turning  up  in  the  shape  of  money. 
John  was  silent,  but  he  was  rather  pale,  and 
Dora  saw  that  this  parting  affected  him. 
"  Poor  John,"  thought  Dora,  kindly  ;  "he  has 
fancied  himself  so  long  in  love  with  me,  that 


THE  RESIDENCE  AT   ROUEN. 


33 


he  believes  it.  I  dare  say  he  will  go  on  so  to 
the  end." 

But  she  ^ent  up  to  him  and  said  a  few  kind 
words  about  better  times  that  were  coming  for 
them  all,  and  his  getting  that  appointment  in 
the  end. 

"  And  if  I  do  get  it,"  began  John,  rather 
eagerly ;  but  he  ceased  abruptly  on  seeing 
his  mother  behind  him.  He  had  a  vague 
consciousness  that  Dora's  altered  circum- 
stances had  also  altered  his  mother's  feelings 
and  wishes. 

"  Time  to  go,  John,"  said  Mr.  Ryan. 

Yes,  it  was  time,  and  spite  Mrs.  Luan's 
watchful  eye,  John  took  Dora  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Tell  aunt  I  shall  go  and  see  her  in  Rouen," 
he  whispered. 

"What  is  it?  What  did  John  say?" 
eagerly  asked  Mrs.  Luan,  when  the  two  gen- 
tlemen were  gone,  and  she  and  Dora  sat  in 
the  railway  carriage. 

"John  says  he  will  come  and  see  us  in 
Rouen,"  simply  replied  Do^a. 

Railway  and  steamboat  travelling  has  no 
romance  now.  It  is  swift  and  convenient — we 
must  not  ask  it  to  be  eventful.  After  an  easy 
passage,  and  a  rapid  journey  through  a  green 
landscape,  Dora  and  her  aunt  reached  Rouen 
in  the  evening.  Narrow  streets  and  church- 
spires  rising  through  the  darkness,  seemed  to 
Dora  the  chief  characteristics  of  Rouen  as 
they  drove  through  it. 

"  Oh,  such  a  dear  old  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  whom  they  had  found  at  the  sta- 
tion ;  "  I  am  sure  you  will  like  our  apart- 
ments, Dora,  and  that  dear  old  thing,  Madame 
Bertrand." 

Dora  asked  no  better  than  to  be  pleased 
with  everything.  But  when  she  reached  their 
new  home,  and  saw  a  dingy  old  house,  a  dark 
and  narrow  staircase,  a  clean  little  old  land- 
lady in  a  cotton  apron  and  white  cap,  and 
some  very  poorly-furnished  rooms  on  the  Crst 


floor,  she  tried  not  to  sigh  as  she  remembered 
the  pretty  villa  in  Bayswater. 


CHAPTER    Vm. 

The  often-boasted  charm  of  novelty  was  not 
felt  by  Dora  when  she  awoke  the  next  morn- 
ing and  looked  around  her.  The  little  room, 
with  its  dingy,  old-fashioned  furniture,  not  one 
article  of  which  was  endeared  by  familiarity, 
seemed  both  cheerless  and  unpleasant.  The 
ceiling  was  low  and  depressing.  The  few 
sounds  which  arose  from  the  street  had  no 
old  homely  meaning  in  them.  A  certain 
quaintness  there  was,  indeed,  in  the  aspect  of 
the  place,  but  even  Dora  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  there  was  no  more. 

"  And  yet  I  shall  be  happy  here  in  spite  of 
you,  you  poor  little  room ! "  she  thought,  as 
she  rose  and  dressed  herself.  "  I  never  had 
such  bed-curtains  before.  I  shall  remember 
that  when  I  feel  dull,  and  be  thankful." 

Those  curtains  were  certainly  peculiar,  more 
pecuUar  than  beautiful.  Dora  sat  down  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  to  look  at  them.  They 
were  of  a  dull  lilac  tint,  which  many  a  wash- 
ing had  faded,  and  they  represented  the  for- 
tunes of  the  fair  and  much-tried  Griselidis. 
Dora  saw  her  standing  at  her  father's  door  in 
humble,  shepherdess  attire ;  then  came  the 
noble  wooer  and  his  suite  to  bear  the  new 
marchioness  away.  Now  Griselidis  sits  on  a 
throne  in  state,  and  with  rank  and  dignity 
begin  her  sorrows.  Her  children  are  taken 
from  her,  her  husband  grows  unkind,  and 
finally  repudiates  his  too  patient  wife.  Dora, 
who  had  raised  the  curtain  to  follow  the 
story  to  its  happy  end,  dropped  it  with  some 
scorn  as  the  last  print  showed  her  the  Mar- 
quis of  Saluces  embracing  his  forgiving  spouse. 

"  How  I  should  have  hated  that  man ! "  she 
thought,  her  bright  eyes  flashing.  "Some 
sour  old  bachelor  certainly  had  these  curtains 


34: 


DORA. 


first.    What  woman  would  choose  such  a  sub- 
ject for  night  or  morning  contemplation  ?  " 

She  was  dressed  by  this,  and  opened  the 
window  a  little  impatiently.  Stranger  still 
than  within  did  everything  without  look  to  her 
unaccustomed  eye.  On  the  opposite  side  of 
the  narrow  street  stood  an  old  church,  at  the 
corner  of  a  dark  alley.  It  had  long  been  dis- 
used for  worship,  and  was  now  the  storehouse 
of  a  large  foundery.  Through  the  open  door 
Dora  could  see  heaps  of  grapeshot  and  mus- 
ket-balls lying  on  the  dusty  floor.  The  cold 
gray  walls  were  stripped  of  all  their  ecclesias- 
tical pageantry.  The  painted  glass  windows 
bad  long  been  shattered  and  walled  up.  Al- 
tar, pictures,  flowers,  and  golden  candlesticks 
were  all  gone,  but  high  up  near  the  roof  Dora 
could  still  read  the  half-effaced  words,  "  Gloire 
a  Dieu." 

Above  the  gate  stood  a  stone  bishop  in  his 
mitre.  The  figure,  though  sadly  mutilated, 
still  stretched  out  a  benignant  hand  to  bestow 
the  pastoral  blessing.  But  the  staff,  emblem 
of  authority,  was  broken  in  the  other  hand, 
which  grasped  but  a  useless  fragment.  Very 
brown  and  gray  was  the  carved  front  of  this 
dilapidated  edifice.  And  yet  the  sad  old  ruin 
had  a  charm  which  struck  Dora  as  being  both 
quaint  and  graceful.  The  keeper  of  this  place 
probably  had  a  taste  for  flowers,  for  he  had 
made  himself  a  garden  high  up  among  the 
buttresses.  A  sort  of  terrace  he  had  fash- 
ioned there ;  he  had  brought  mould  to  it,  and 
then  filled  it  with  stocks  and  lilies.  Tall, 
white,  and  spotless  rose  the  virgin  flowers, 
looking  very  fair  and  pure  against  that  som- 
bre background.  A  vine,  too,  there  was,  that 
scattered  its  green  arms  about  and  hung  over 
the  street  in  festoons,  which  the  ligh't  breath 
of  the  morning  stirred  gently. 

The  street  itself  was  narrow,  steep,  and  very 
old.  It  had  been  of  some  note  in  the  days 
gone  by.  Presidents  and  members  of  the 
Parliament  of  Rouen  had  dwelt  in  tlio.«e  lar^e 


hotels,  with  quiet  grass-grown  courts  in  front 
and  broad  gardens  behind.  They  were  now 
the  abode  of  manufacturers  aad  of  retired 
legal  practitioners,  who  kept  them  in  repair, 
but  who  cared  to  do  no  more.  Everything 
was  tranquil  and  silent.  One  house,  more 
poorly  inhabited  than  the  rest,  showed  a  few 
tokens  of  life.  A  green  sign-board  dangled 
from  one  of  the  second-floor  windows,  and  in- 
formed the  passers-by  that  Professor  Didier 
lived  within.  A  pale,  thin  old  woman  looked 
out  for  a  few  moments,  then  shut  the  window. 
A  rosy  boy  appeared  at  another  window  on 
the  third  floor,  and  stared  at  Dora,  but  he  too 
vanished,  and  the  house  became  as  silent  and 
as  quiet  as  its  neighbors.  In  the  street  Dora 
saw  two  children  lazily  going  to  school,  then 
a  servant-girl  in  clattering  sabots,  who  came 
back  with  a  pail  of  water  from  a  fountain  that 
was  almost  underneath  her  window ;  but  when 
the  children  had  gone  by,  and  the  servant-girl 
had  passed  beneath  a  dark  archway  in  the  al- 
ley, not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  whole 
street,  and  not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard  save 
the  little  flow  and  plash  of  the  invisible  wa- 
ter. Dora  tried  to  see  it,  and  leaned  out, 
but  she  only  caught  sight  of  some  stone  carv- 
ing with  a  green  fern  growing  on  the  top  of 
it,  high  out  of  the  reach  of  rude  hands. 

"  It  will  be  very  quiet,"  she  thought. 

Already  a  sort  of  torpor,  the  forerunner  of 
the  life  she  was  to  lead,  stole  over  her.  She 
looked  down  the  street, 'and  at  its  narrow 
close  she  saw  the  green  hazy  river,  with  a 
black  boat  gliding  down ;  and  thus  looking 
and  leaning  on  her  window-sill,  Dora  fell  into 
a  vague  yet  not  unpleasant  reverie.  The  clear 
foreign  sky,  the  strange  city,  and  the  quiet 
street,  with  its  picturesque  memorials  of  by- 
gone days,  lulled  thought  to  rest,  and  drove 
care  away.  The  loss  of  some  money  seemed 
an  event  of  little  magnitude  when  compared 
with  these  impressive  tokens  of  ruin  and  de- 
cay.    Besides,  Dora  was  still  young,  and  as  a 


MADAME  BERTRAM). 


35 


rule  gold  is  neither  youth's  hope  nor  its  de- 
sire. Other  wishes,  other  longings  than  the 
sordid  are  they  which  haunt  the  heart  of  twen- 
ty-three. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother's  voice 
behind  her,  "  how  do  you  like  this  ?  " 
Dora  turned  round,  smiling  brightly. 
"  It  is  very  picturesque  and  pecuUar,"   she 
replied. 

"  Picturesque  and  peculiar  I "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  that  little  shrill  raising 
of  the  voice  by  which  she  expressed  astonish- 
ment. "  My  dear,  it  is  simply  enchanting.  I 
have  not  felt  so  happy  for  years  as  I  have  felt 
since  I  came  here ;  and  Madame  Bertrand  is 
the  most  delightful  old  creature  you  ever  saw ! " 
"  Is  she  old  ?  "  demurely  asked  Dora. 
"  Is  she  old  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs,  Courtenay, 
with  the  little  shrill  raising  of  the  voice  again. 
"  Old  as  the  hills,  but  so  good  ;  only  I  suspect, 
my  love,  that  she  is  a  little  touchy.  She  has  been 
better  off,  you  see,  and  feels  it  hard  to  have  to 
wait  upon  us  now.  She  made  it  a  stipulation 
that  she  was  to  be  called  Madame  Bertrand, 
and  I  came  in  to  tell  you  so — I  was  afraid  you 
might  hurt  her  feelings  inadvertently." 

Dora  promised  to  be  careful,  but  expressed 
some  wonder  that  Madame  Bertrand  should 
have  imdertaken  to  be  their  servant-of-all- 
work.  Upon  which  it  turned  out  that  Madame 
Bertrand  had  undertaken  no  such  thing ;  but 
had  volunteered  her  services  with  restrictions 
so  numerous  that  Dora  was  amused  to  hear 
them  recapitulated  by  her' mother.  She  prom- 
ised, however,  to  attend  to  all  this  touchy  lady's 
regulations.  Mrs.  Courtenay  nodded,  and  at 
once  resumed  Madame  Bertrand's  praises. 
That  lady,  it  seemed,  had  had  a  succession  of 
lodgers. 

"And  they  all  adored  her,  save  one,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  He  was  a  Monsieur  Theo- 
dore, and  after  behaving  abominably,  coming 
in  and  going  out  at  all  hours,  and  calling  her 
'  Bertrand,'  quite  sliort,  as  if  she  were  a  man, 


he  ran  away  without  paying  the    poor   old 
soul." 

Dora  laughed  merrily. 

"Do  they  do  that  in  France  too?"  she 
asked. 

"  My  dear,  how  can  you  be  so  simple  !  They 
do  it  everywhere.  But  it  is  a  shame  to  impose 
on  that  poor  old  thing,  who,  from  all  she  has 
told  me  about  herself,  must  be  one  of  the  best 
creatures  who  ever  breathed  !  " 

Dora  did  not  attempt  to  answer  this.  She 
knew  it  was  her  mother's  habit  to  take  her 
opinion  of  people  from  their  own  account  of 
themselves.  So  she  listened  to  Madame  Ber- 
trand's praises  with  an  amused  smile,  but  with- 
out other  contradiction  than  the  demure  re- 
mark— 

"  I  wonder  if  Monsieur  Theodore  made  love 
to  her." 

"  My  dear,  I  tell  you  she  is  old — old !  "  re- 
monstrated her  mother;  and  in  the  same 
breath  she  informed  her  that  breakftist  was 
ready,  Madame  Bertrand  having  condescended 
so  far  as  to  prepare  it. 

Dora  cast  a  quick,  keen  look  around  their 
sitting-room,  as  she  sat  down  to  breakfast. 
It  was  a  clean,  cold,  and  poor-looking  apart- 
ment enough. 

"But  you  shall  have  another  look  before 
the  day  is  out,"  said  Dora  aloud.  "  I  am  talk- 
ing to  the  room,  aunt,"  she  added,  smiling  at 
Mrs.  Luan's  startled  face. 

"  Don't  spend,  Dora  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Luan, 
putting  down  her  cup  in  alarm. 

"Oh!  I  must;  but  it  shall  not  be  beyond 
pence.  I  know  that  shillings  are  forbidden 
now." 

Mrs.  Luan  still  looked  uneasy,  but  did  not 
venture  on  further  remonstrance.  When 
breakfast  was  over,  Dora  entered  her  room, 
unpacked  her  trunk,  and  took  out  some  of 
those  little  toys  which  are  the  delight  of  a 
woman's  heart.  She  had  saved  them  from 
the  wreck  of  her  fortunes,  not  merely  because 


36 


DORA. 


habit  had  endeared  them  to  her,  but  because, 
though  valuable  of  their  kind,  they  would  only 
have  been  swallowed  in  the  great  catastrophe, 
and  would  have  brought  in  little  or  nothing  at 
a  sale.  "Within  an  hour  the  room,  as  Dora 
had  told  it,  had  another  look.  She  had  hung 
up  a  few  water-color  drawings  on  the  walls, 
put  up  two  brackets  with  the  bronze  heads  of 
Shakespeare  and  Dante  upon  them,  and  for 
the  dingy,  common  FAnch  porcelain  vases, 
with  artificial  flowers  in  them,  under  glass 
globes,  which  adorned  Madame  Bertrand's 
black  marble  mantel-piece,  Dora  substituted 
two  white  and  blue  vases  of  genuine  china, 
which  she  filled  with  fresh  wall-flowers,  bought 
from  a  woman  in  the  street.  This,  and  a 
work-basket  on  the  table,  a  few  books  on  a 
shelf,  and  here  and  there  a  little  feminine 
trifle,  so  altered  the  aspect  of  the  place,  that 
A^'hen  Mrs.  Courtenay  came  out  of  her  own 
room,  and  saw  it  again,  she  uttered  a  little 
scream  of  delight. 

"  You  are  a  fairy  I  "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  in  admiration. 

"Twopence  for  nails,  and  twopence  for 
flowers,"  triumphantly  said  Dora,  looking  at 
her  aunt ;  "  total,  fourpence !'" 

Mrs.  Luan  was  mute ;  but,  if  she  had  dared, 
she  would  have  said  that  the  fourpence  were 
ill-spent. 

The  day  had  been  a  busy  one  for  Dora,  and 
toward  the  close  she  entered  her  room  and  sat 
down  to  rest  by  her  open  window.  She  looked 
at  the  old  church,  at  the  lilies,  at  the  bouse 
where  the  professor  lived,  and  she  found  them 
all  quiet  and  silent  as  in  the  morning.  The 
little  rosy  boy,  whom  she  had  already  seen, 
was  peeping  at  her  from  behind  a  window  cur- 
tain, but  when  he  saw  her  smiling  face  he  dis- 
appeared. A  glimpse  of  the  professor's  wife 
she  also  had,  but  it  was  a  brief  one.  Madame 
Didier  was  looking  out  at  her  husband,  a 
lame,  infirm  man,  who  walked  down  the  street 
leaning  heavily  on  his   stick.     She  Avatched 


him  till  he  turned  the  corner  of  the  street, 
then  she  shut  her  window,  and  was  seen  no 
more.  Dora  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  with  a 
book  lying  unopened  on  her  lap.  She  could 
imagine  from  this  day  what  her  life  would  be. 
She  would  not  have  pictures  to  hang  or 
brackets  to  put  up  daily,  but  daily  she  might, 
if  she  pleased,  sit  by  her  window  and  read,  or 
sew,  or  look  at  the  old  church.  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay was  too  delicate  to  take  long  walks, 
Mrs.  Luan  too  indififerent,  and  they  could  not 
afford  to  hire  carriages.  She  had  been  out 
for  an  hour  alone,  and  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Eouen.  It  looked  a  dull,  grave, 
commercial  city,  with  magnificent  Gothic 
churches,  but  it  also  looked  very  dreary. 
Little  light  or  cheerfulness  was  there  in  those 
ancient  streets,  over  which  huge  mediaeval 
piles  shed  their  gloom. 

"  And  we  do  not.  know  a  soul  here,"  she 
thought ;  "  and  if  we  stay  years  in  Eouen,  as 
we  may,  I  shall  spend  those  years  in  compara- 
tive solitude." 

There  was  something  almost  appalling  to 
Dora  in  the  thought,  and  the  evening  of  that 
first  day  was  not  calculated  to  contradict  it. 

It  was  a  spring  evening,  hot  as  summer,  yet 
they  remained  within,  for  whither  should  they 
have  gone  ?  Mrs.  Luan,  who  never  felt  dull, 
perhaps  because  she  never  felt  merry^  was 
busy  with  her  patchwork.  Mrs.  Courtenay  at 
first  talked  in  a  very  lively  strain,  and  was 
enthusiastic  about  the  pleasures  of  this  new 
life,  but  gently  fell  asleep  in  the  end.  Dora 
looked  at  a  flower-pot  on  the  window-ledge,  in 
which  a  weak  shoot  was  attempting  to  send 
forth  a  pair  of  leaves. 

"  I  suppose  I  sliall  have  to  take  some  in- 
terest in  you,"  she  thought ;  "  but  you  are  not 
animate  enough  for  me.  I  wish  one  could 
make  slips  of  living  creatures,  and  watch  them 
growing.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  see  the  tips 
of  a  pair  of  brown,  furry  cars  shooting  up, 
then  bright  eyes,  then  a  round  head,  then  the 


EEMEMBRANCES  OF   OTHER   DAYS. 


37 


rest  of  the  creature ;  but  the  ears  would  be 
the  really  pretty  part  of  it.  I  should  like  to 
have  a  kitten  so,  or  a  pup  ;  but  where  is  the 
use  of  liking  anything  more  ?  I,  who  could 
not  see  a  bird  fly  but  I  longed  for  it,  must 
now  learn  to  be  as  sober  and  demure  as  any 
nun." 

In  this  austere  mood,  Dora  took  up  a  book 
and  tried  to  read,  but  reading  seemed  to  have 
lost  its  charm. 

"I  must  study,"  she  thought — "nothing 
else  will  do."  So  she  went  and  fetched 
Dante,  and  did  her  best  to  fothom  one  of  the 
most  obscure  of  his  difficult  passages.  But 
neither  would  that  answer.  Study  cannot  be 
taken  up  as  a  foil  against  passing  tediousness. 
She  is  an  austere  mistress,  and  requires  undi- 
vided worship.  Besides,  there  rose  sounds 
from  below  which  disturbed  Dora.  Madame 
Bertrand  had  friends  who  spent  the  evening 
with  her.  Their  loud  talking  and  louder 
laughter  came  up  to  Dora  as  a  sorrowful  com- 
ment on  the  present,  and  a  no  less  sorrowful 
remembrance  of  the  past.  She  remembered 
joyous  young  days  in  Ireland,  pleasant  even- 
ings between  her  brother  Paul  and  her  cousin, 
John  Luan.  She  remembered  evenings  when 
she  had  conversed  with  the  gifted  and  the 
wise  during  th^brief  year  of  her  prosperity. 
That,  too,  had  its  charm,  colder  than  that  of 
her  youth,  but  happy  because  intellectual. 
And  now,  how  had  it  ended  ?  She  had  lost  the 
two  friends  of  her  girlhood ;  she  had  lost  the 
intercourse  which  is  so  dear  to  an  inquiring 
and  cultivated  mind,  and  she  was  the  denizen 
of  a  strange  city,  thrown  on  her  own  resources, 
bound  to  live  without  a  purpose  or  a  task  in  life 
other  than  that  of  Hfe  itself— a  dull  and  a  hard 
prospect  at  twenty-three.  But  we  do  not  all 
feel  alike  on  these  subjects.  Madame  Ber- 
trand and  her  friends  talked  so  loud,  that  Mrs. 
Courtenay  awoke,  and  looked  startled. 

"  Dear  me  ! "  she  said,  innocently,  "  I 
thought  I  was  at  one  of  our  parties,  and  that 


I  had  fallen  asleep  whilst  Mr.  Gray  was  telling 
me  of  a  scientific  experiment.  It  is  such  a  re- 
lief to  find  it  a  dream  !  Poor  Mr.  Gray ! — how 
he  used  to  prose ! " 

"  Thank  Heaven,  she  regrets  nothing  !  " 
thought  Dora,  with  a  smile. 

"  Do  listen  to  these  people  laughing,"  good- 
humoredly  continued  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  You 
have  no  idea  how  cheerful  my  country-people 
are,  Dora." 

She  spoke  airily.  It  was  plain  that  she  ap- 
propriated the  cheerfulness  of  Madame  Ber- 
trand and  her  friends,  and  made  it  her  own 
for  the  time  being. 

"  And  so  will  I,"  resolutely  thought  Dora, 
with  a  little  defiant  shake  of  her  bright  head. 
"  So  will  I." 

Alas !  it  was  very  easily  said — more  easily 
said  than  done.  When  Dora  went  back  to 
her  room  that  evening,  and  looked  at  the  prim 
and  patient  Griselidis,  she  wondered  if  C7i7iui 
had  ever  been  amongst  the  trials  of  that  lady's 
lot. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  BKAVE  heart  will  go  through  more  than 
Dora  had  to  bear.  After  all,  her  lot  was  not 
so  hard.  She  had  the  shelter  of  a  roof,  daily 
bread,  raiment,  all  the  things  that  thousands 
struggle  for  so  wearily,  and  can  so  seldom  win. 
She  had  these,  and  with  them  leisure,  a  few 
books,  the  companionship  of  two  beings  who 
loved  her,  and  a  happy,  sunny  temper,  to 
make  all  good.  If  she  sometimes  heaved  a 
little  regretful  sigh,  it  was  because  she  was 
still  young,  you  see,  and  did  not  know  the 
wonderful  blessings  of  peace.  Give  her  a  few 
years  more,  and  let  her  go  forth  and  be  tossed 
in  some  lonely  boat  on  the  waves  of  life,  and 
how  she  will  look  back  to  this  safe  haven, 
and  pine  for  its  sweet  shelter !  Ilappy  girl ! 
Neither  passion  which  is  .wasting,  nor  sorrow 
which  is  cruel,  nor  care  which  is  remorseless, 


38 


DORA. 


is  with  you  now.  So  this  is  still  your  golden 
time,  and  these  are  still  your  halcyon  days, 
though  Rouen  is  rather  a  gloomy  city  to  live 
in. 

But  though  Dora,  more  through  tempera- 
ment than  from  any  philosophical  apprecia- 
tion of  the  blessings  which  remained  to  her, 
was  happy  and  contented ;  though  Madame 
Bertrand  said  it  did  one  good  to  see  the  de- 
moiselle's bright  face,  and  grew  poetic  with 
her  neighbors  when  she  once  broached  that 
theme ;  though  everything,  in  short,  seemed 
as  it  should  be,  still  Dora  heaved  that  little 
regretful  sigh  we  have  spoken  of.  It  came 
probably  because  no  human  life  can  be  free 
from  it.  We  may  be  sure  that  on  the  day 
when  Napoleon  was  crowned  in  Notre  Dame 
he  heaved  a  sigh  for  Corsican  hills,  or  for 
having  eaten  cherries  with  a  pretty  girl  in  an 
orchard  when  he  was  sub-lieutenant — for  any 
thing,  in  short,  which  he  had  no  more.  It  is 
the  mortal  lot  to  repine.  Saints  fret  over 
their  sins,  and  sinners  lament  their  lost  follies, 
and  every  one  has  suffered  some  deprivation 
or  other.  Dora's  was  money,  and  with  money 
the  loss  of  comforts,  and  pleasures,  and  en- 
jovments,  which  that  modern  lamp  of  Aladdin 
summons  forth  at  its  bidding  from  the  dark 
recesses  of  life,  where  they  sleep  so  soundly, 
so  far  as  the  needy  are  concerned.  The  cruel 
enchanter  Brown  had  taken  her  lamp  away ; 
the  spell  was  gone,  and  some  trouble  was  the 
result.  On  most  days  she  defied  her  fate,  and 
forbade  it  to  vex  her ;  and  on  other  days,  as 
we  said,  she  sighed. 

Eer  mother  and  her  aunt,  who  shared  her 
loss,  did  not  deny  its  existence,  but  they  were 
not  prepared  to  sympathize  with  Dora  when 
she  felt  dull  now  and  then.  The  sound  of  her 
native  language  had  not  yet  lost  its  charm  for 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  Mrs.  Luan  professed  her- 
self delighted  with  the  cheapness  of  Rouen. 

So  Dora  behaved  like  a  true  stoic.    She  en- 

h 
dured  and  did  not  complain. 


Rouen  is  a  picturesque  city,  and  Dora  liked 
the  picturesque,  and  found  and  made  herself 
pleasures  out  of  it.  The  solemn  gloom  of 
Notre  Dame  and  Saint  Ouen,  the  glorious 
painted  glass  in  Saint  Vincent  and  Saint 
Patrice,  the  wonderful  fa9ade  of  Saint  Maclou, 
or  the  exquisite  court  of  the  Palais  de  Justice, 
gave  her  many  a  'delightful  hour.  But  one 
cannot  live  upon  architecture,  and  Dora  often 
felt  restless,  and  scarcely  happy,  even  though 
these  magnificent  memorials  of  the  past  were 
daily  within  her  view.  She  missed  something 
— something  which  Athens  itself,  and  the 
Acropohs,  which  glimpses  of  Olympus  and 
Mount  Athos  could  not  have  supplied.  The 
open  space  and  border  of  heath,  the  view  of  a 
gleaming  or  stormy  sea,  which  she  had  had 
from  her  mother's  cottage  in  Ireland,  often 
came  back  to  her  with  a  sort  of  passion.  Oh  ! 
that  sad  memory  did  not  stand  between  her 
and  that  past !  For  a  year  back  again  in  the 
old  country,  with  the  bracing  sea  air,  and  with 
it  the  breath  of  liberty,  far,  far  away  from 
those  grand  frowning  Gothic  heaps  of  stone. 

Rouen  has  few  attractions  as  a  modern  city 
— and  they  were  fewer  then  than  they  are 
now — and  these  Dora  quickly  exhausted.  The 
theatres  she  did  not  visit,  her  mother  did  not 
care  for  excursions,  and  the  Aminine  delight 
of  looking  in  at  shop  windows  slje  seldom  in- 
dulged in.  She  was  still  young,  and  not  in- 
sensible to  the  charms  of  elegant  and  costly 
attire.  So  it  was  rather  hard  to  see  velvet 
and  silks  which  she  must  now  never  wear,  or 
jewels  that  could  no  longer  be  hoped  for  as  a 
good  yet  to  come.  The  gate  of  all  luxurious 
enjoyment  was  closed  upon  her  ;  and  if  Dora 
was  not  wise  enough  to  scorn  such  vanities, 
she  was  too  proud  to  indulge  in  weak  and  use- 
less regret. 

To  stay  very  much  within  was  therefore  one 
of  the  features  of  her  lot,  and  such  tranquilhty 
is  utterly  obnoxious  to  youth.  She  sometimes 
longed  for  motion  with  a  feverish  restlessness. 


DORA  AND   A   POOR    OLD   WOMAN. 


39 


She  did  her  best  to  conquer  the  unquiet  mood, 
and  she  tried  to  make  herself  home  pleasures, 
but  this  was  no  easy  matter.  Madame  Ber- 
trand's  cat  did  indeed  steal  up  to  her,  but  she 
only  slept  and  purred.  So  Dora  made  friends 
with  a  host  of  sparrows,  whose  nests  were  iu 
the  old  church.  She  bribed  them  with  crumbs, 
and  soon  so  tamed  them  that  they  would  come 
and  flutter  past  her  open  window,  and,  if  she 
sat  very  still,  peck  on  the  ledge  whilst  she 
looked  on.  She  also  opened  a  flirtation  with 
the  little  rosy  boy  in  the  opposite  house,  and 
she  seldom  appeared  at  her  window  but .  he 
was  to  be  seen  at  his,  laughing  and  nodding  to 
her.  A  silent  interest  she  likewise  took  in 
the  doings  of  the  lame  professor  and  his  pale 
wife  ;  and  altogether  she  made  the  best  of  her 
lot,  but,  as  we  have  said,  she  could  not  help 
feeling  restless  now  and  then. 

That  unquiet  mood  had  been  very  strong 
upon  her  on  a  bright  day  iu  summer,  when,  in 
the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Courtenay  suddenly  ex- 
pressed the  wish  to  partake  of  some  Fromage 
de  Brie. 

"  I  should  like  it,  oh !  of  all  things,"  she 
exclaimed,  raising  her  voice  in  her  little  shrill 
tone. 

Dora  looked  up  from  her  work,  and  sup- 
posed the  wish  was  one  her  mother  could 
gratify. 

"Oh!  no,"  was  the  slightly  plaintive  reply, 
"  I  would  not  touch  one  of  the  cheeses  they 
sell  about  here;  and  Madame  Bertrand's 
woman  lives  miles  away,  at  the  other  end  of 
Rouen — miles  away  ! " 

"  I  shall  go  and  fetch  you  a  cheese,  mam- 
ma," quickly  said  Dora,  throwing  down  her 
work. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  ever  so  far  away.  Oh  !  so 
far — miles  !  " 

"  Then  it  is  the  very  thing  for  me,"  gayly 
said  Dora.  "  I  feel  just  now  as  if  I  should 
like  to  go  to  the  edge  of  the  world  and  look 
over." 


"  My  dear  !  "  expostulated  her  mother. 

"  I  should !  "  wilfully  said  Dora.  "  Oh  !  for 
one  good  peep  out  of  this  world,  and  to  see 
the  stars  spinning  !  " 

The  journey  to  fetch  the  cheese  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay longed  for  promised  no  such  prospect, 
and  was  described  by  Madame  Bertrand  as 
something  formidable ;  but  Dora  was  bent  on 
going,  and  she  went. 

She  had  not  walked  ten  steps  when,  as  she 
passed  the  house  where  the  lame  teacher  lived, 
she  heard  a  groan  of  distress  coming  from  be- 
neath the  archway.  The  gate,  as  is  usually 
the  case  on  the  Continent,  stood  wide  open, 
and  Dora  put  her  head  in  and  saw  a  lamenta- 
ble picture.  A  little  woman,  very  old,  and 
very  poorly  dressed,  was  sitting  on  the  last 
step  of  the  stone  staircase,  staring  at  half-a- 
dozen  of  broken  eggs  and  some  spilt  milk. 
An  earthen  bowl  and  a  plate  also  lay  in  frag- 
ments near  her. 

"  Can  I  help  you  ?  "  asked  Dora. 

"  Can  you  pick  up  milk,"  was  the  sharp  re- 
tort, "  or  mend  broken  eggs  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  good-humoredly  replied  Dora,  "  I 
think  I  can  do  both." 

"  I  had  not  tasted  a  drop  of  milk,  or  seen 
the  yolk  of  an  egg,  since  I  lost  my  five-franc 
piece,"  groaned  the  old  woman,  without  heed- 
ing her  ;  "  and  now  that  I  had  saved  and  saved 
till  I  could  have  an  egg  again,  I  stumbled,  and 
there  they  are,  dish  and  all — dish  and  all ! 
There  they  are  ! " 

Dora  stooped  and  carefully  picked  up  two 
of  the  eggs,  which  had  escaped  with  a  gentle 
crack. 

"  These  will  do,"  she  said,  softly  laying  them 
on  a  fragment  of  the  plate ;  "  and  for  the  other 
four  and  the  milk  here  is  a  cure." 

She  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  took 
out  a  few  pence ;  but  the  old  womau  shook 
her  head. 

"  Have  eggs  and  milk  got  feet  ?  "  she  asked. 
"Will   they  come?     I  caunot  go  and  fetch 


40 


DORA. 


them — no,  I  cannot,  I  am  too  tired,"  she  add- 
ed, as  if  Dora  were  attempting  to  persuade 
her. 

"  You  are  but  a  cross  old  fairy,"  thougtit 
Dora ;  "  but  still  you  shall  have  your  way, 
and  I  will  see  if  I  cannot  make  you  hajjpy." 

So  she  took  back  the  money  which  she  had 
put  in  the  old  woman's  lap,  and  she  went 
away. 

The  little  old  woman  remained  sitting  on  the 
step  of  the  staircase  groaning  over  the  broken 
eggs  and  the  spilt  milk,  and  addressing  them 
with  impotent  wrath. 

"  You  did  it  on  purpose,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  head  at  them,  "  you  know  you  did  ! " 

"  Did  they,  though  ? "  said  some  one, 
coming  in  from  the  street.  "That  was  too 
bad  of  them." 

"  Go  your  way,"  was  her  angry  reply.  "  Go 
to  your  old  frippery,  and  let  me  be  quiet. 
Don't  touch  them,"  she  almost  screamed,  as, 
in  going  up  the  staircase,  the  stranger  seemed 
hkely  to  tread  on  the  two  eggs  which  Dora 
had  put  on  the  broken  plate.  "  She  is  bring- 
ing me  more ;  but  I  will  have  these  too." 

Even  as  she  spoke  Dora  appeared  under- 
neath the  archway,  followed  by  a  child  with  a 
cup  full  of  milk,  and  four  eggs  on  a  plate. 

"  There,"  she  said,  gayly,  "  they  did  come  to 
you,  after  all ;  and  they  are  all  yours,  the  cup, 
the  plate,  the  milk,  and  the  eggs,"  she  added, 
taking  them  from  the  child's  hand  to  present 
them  to  her. 

"  The  cup  too  ?  "  screamed  the  old  woman. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  cup  too,"  replied  Dora, 
gravely.     "  Are  you  glad  ?  " 

"Ravished!"  was  the  ardent  reply;  "en- 
chanted !  Oh  !  the  beautiful  cup  !  Why,  who 
are  you?"  she  suddenly  exclaimed,  glancing 
from  the  gifts  to  the  giver,  and  shading  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  to  see  her  better. 

Dora  stood  before  her  bright  and  smiling, 
with  her  little  donations  in  her  hands.  She 
saw  that  her  prolec/ce  was  dazzled  with  her 


blooming,  radiant  face,  and  it  amused  her. 
To  charm  animals,  allure  children,  and  con- 
quer ill-tempered  people,  was  her  gift;  she 
knew  it,  and  she  Hked  it,  "I  thought  I 
should  prevail  over  you,"  was  her  triumphant, 
though  unspoken  boast,  as  the  old  woman  still 
stared  like  one  confused. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  aloud;  "the  child 
shall  carry  these  up  for  you,"  and  handing 
both  milk  and  eggs  to  the  little  girl  who  had 
brought  them,  Dora  nodded  and  went  her 
way. 

"  Who  is  she,  eh  ?  "  asked  the  receiver  of 
the  milk  and  eggs. 

"She  lives  opposite,"  replied  the  child, 
glibly ;  "  and  she  sits  at  her  window.  Such  a 
beautiful  demoiselle ! " 

Unconscious  of  her  double  triumph,  Dora 
went  on  her  way.  The  distance  was  great, 
but  it  was  reached  at  last.  Dora  bought  the 
cheese,  and  with  the  precious  dainty  carefully 
wrapped  up,  so  that  no  untoward  accident 
should  cause  it  to  break,  she  turned  home- 
ward. The  cheesemonger  lived  very  far  away, 
and  the  sun  was  now  near  its  setting.  As 
Dora  went  down  a  steep  street,  she  saw  all 
Rouen  beneath  her.  It  wJs  a  picture  !  Many 
a  poor,  strugghng  artist,  living  in  a  dull,  smoky 
city,  would  give  a  year  of  his  life  to  have  the 
chance  of  painting  such  a  one.  The  gleaming 
river,  now  dark  purple,  now  flowing  gold, 
wound  through  the  old  town,  and  passed  be- 
neath the  bridges ;  church  towers  and  spires 
rose  above  the  dark  sea  of  roofs,  and  appeared 
in  fine  clear  hues  on  a  sky  of  pale  azure; 
luxuriant  verdure  and  rounded  hills  framed 
the  magic  picture  over  which,  spread  a  haze 
both  soft  and  bright.  It  was  beautiful,  won- 
derfully beautiful,  and  Dora  stopped  and  gazed 
in  deep  admiration.  But  neither  that  nor  the 
long  walk  which  had  tired  her  could  quell  the 
restlessness  within  her.  She  had  brought  it 
out,  and  she  vm?,  taking  it  back.  Her  life  was 
a  dull  life,  and  Dora  had  tasted  another  life 


THE  BOOK-STALL. 


41 


than  this.  She  had  had  a  life  full  of  fervor 
aud  hope  with  her  lost  brother  in  Ireland ;  she 
had  had  a  life  of  intellectual  pursuits  and  so- 
cial pleasures  in  London,  and  now  she  was 
lingering  the  last  bright  years  of  youth  away 
in  a  French  provincial  town.  In  short,  Dora 
felt  not  merely  restless,  but  dull. 

It  is  sad  to  say  it,  but  more  than  one-half  of 
the  human  species,  womankind,  is  sorely  trou- 
bled with  that  modern  complaint  of  dulness. 
After  all,  there  was  some  good  in  the  olden 
time,  when  men  fought  aud  strove,  and  women 
sat  at  home  and  spun  wool,  and  both  liked  it. 
Yes,  there  was  a  philosophy  in  the  spitidle 
and  distaff,  or  in  the  silk  and  worsted,  no 
doubt  about  it.  When  Matilda  and  her  maid- 
ens sat  down  to  their  tapestry  and  worked  in 
tent-stitch  the  history  of  the  Norman  Con- 
quest, they  were  thus  saved  many  a  trouble 
and  many  a  weary  houi-.  Of  course  there  was 
sorrow  in  these  days,  and  there  was  love  too, 
easy,  natural  love,  which  came  and  went  hke 
a  gentle  epidemic ;  but  we  doubt  if  these  me- 
diasval  women  were  haunted  with  the  ideal, 
or  if  they  made  theis  moan  because  they 
failed  to  secure  variety.  Peace,  which  we 
prize  so  little,  was  one  of  their  blessings.  A 
calm  and  tranquil  life  they  led  in  the  main. 
Strong  walls  were  raised,  and  men  wore  heavy 
armor,  that  these  ladies  might  sit  in  quiet  and 
work  on  canvas  strange  warriors  on  gaunt 
horse?,  or  quaint  trees,  with  birds  never 
known  out  of  fable  perched  on  the  boughs. 
We  have  improved  all  that,  xo  be  sure ;  but 
then  let  us  not  complain  if  we  are  called  upon 
to  pay  the  penalty  of  the  improvement. 

Vain  admonition  !  Dora  had  a  warm,  genial 
nature ;  she  loved  her  mother  and  she  liked 
her  aunt,  but  she  longed  for  a  life  in  which 
there  should  be  some  other  purpose  than  to 
make  the  two  ends  of  a  narrow  income  meet. 

That  longing  was  strong  upon  her  as  she 
stood  and  looked  at  dusk  gathering  over  the 
city  below  her.     With  a  sigh  at  its  useless- 


ness,  she  roused  herself  from  her  reverie,  and 
went  down  the  street  at  a  quick  pace.  To 
reach  home  sooner  she  took  a  short  cut 
through  one  of  the  narrow  lanes  that  were 
to  be  found  within  the  shadow  of  Xotre  Dame. 
A  gray  twilight  still  reigned  there.  As  she 
passed  by  one  of  the  low  shops,  with  beetling 
first-floors  over  them,  Dora  saw  some  books 
on  a  Btall  outside.  Had  she  ever  seen  them 
there  before?  It  seemed  not  to  lier.  The 
shop  was  not  a  mere  second-hand  bookseller's 
shop  ;  many  wares  were  sold  within  it.  There 
were  portfolios  of  drawings  in  stands  inside 
near  the  door ;  in  a  c'Srner  she  saw  some  old 
portraits,  with  fixed  eyes  staring  through  the 
gloom.  A  few  plates  of  old  Rouen  ware,  a 
worm-eaten  bos  of  carved  wood,  a  shattered 
Etruscan  vase,  and  a  heap  of  ancient  tapes- 
try, appeared  in  the  window  above  the  book- 
stall. At  once  Dora's  thoughts  flew  back  to 
the  days  when  her  brother  and  she  were  en- 
gaged in  the  catalogue.  She  paused  and 
looked  at  that  old  bric-d-brac  shop  with  a  sad, 
troubled  eye.  Oh,  ye  days  gone  by,  how  you 
can  haunt  us  !  It  was  a  pain  to  linger  there, 
and  yet  Dora  could  not  bear  to  go.  A  light 
burned  in  the  shop ;  its  rays  fell  on  the  stall 
outside.  She  took  up  a  book  to  stay  and  look 
a  little  longer.  The  book  itself  woke  kindred 
recollections.  She  remembered  how  she  had 
once  provoked  her  brother  Paul  with  a  piece 
of  girlish  folly^  aud  how  he  had  answered  her 
with  a  "  Read  Epictetus — read  Epictetus  " — a 
tantalizing  injunction,  siace  he  read  it  in  the 
classic  original.  Now  the  book  Dora  had 
taken  up  was  an  old  French  translation  of 
Epictetus.  Her  heart  beat  as  she  opened  its 
pages;  then,  as  she  glanced  over  them,  and 
read  a  few  maxims,  the  calm  and  divine 
wisdom  of  the  Phrygian  slave  won  on  her  by 
its  beauty. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  book  is  a  dear  one  ?  "  she 
thought. 

She  hesitated   a  while,  then  ventured  into 


42 


DORA. 


the  6hop  with  the  volume  in  her  hand.  The 
dealer  was  not  alone.  There  was  a  customer 
with  him,  a  slender,  dark  man,  for  whom  he 
held  a  candle  in  a  dingy  iron  candlestick. 

"  Pray  how  much  may  this  book  cost  ?  " 
asked  Dora. 

The  man  turned  round,  and  said,  civilly, 

"  What  book,  mademoiselle,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  Epictetus,"  she  answered. 

The  customer,  who  was  gazing  intently  at 
an  old  engraving,  now  looked  up  as  he  heard 
this  girlish  voice  uttering  the  name  of  the  stoic 
philosopher,  and  there  was  just  a  touch  of 
perplexity  in  his  glance  As  he  saw  Dora.  You 
would  scarcely  have  connected  philosophy  un- 
der any  shape  with  her  open,  genial  face. 
Thus,  bright,  hopeful,  and  young  might  have 
looked  a  Psyche  before  her  sorrows. 

"  Ten  francs,"  was  the  dealer's  reply. 

Dora  had  made  up  her  mind  to  give  so  much 
as  one  franc  for  the  volume,  but  ten  made  her 
blush  with  confusion  at  having  entered  the 
shop  at  all. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  was  so  expensive,"  she 
said,  apologetically. 

He  saw  her  embarrassment,  and  replied, 
good-naturedly,  that  the  edition  was  a  rare 
one.  Dora,  who  was  reluctantly  putting  the 
book  by,  brightened  up.  Had  he  got  ^ 
cheaper  edition  ? 

"No,"  and  he  shook  his  head,  "he  had 
not ;  and  what  was  more,  Epictetus  was 
rather  a  scarce  book.  Few  people  cared 
about  it." 

Dora  apologized  for  having  troubled  him, 
and  left  the  shop.  The  dealer  looked  after 
her  and  chuckled. 

"  Whenever  an  out-of-the-way  book  is  asked 
of  me,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  customer,  "  it 
is  by  your  country-folk.  Doctor  Richard,  and 
especially  by  your  countrywomen.  To  think 
of  a  little  chicken  like  that  wanting  to  peck 
at  Epictetus  ! " 

"Who  is   she?"  asked   Doctor  Richard;  j 


and  he  made  good  his  claim  to  be  Dora's 
countryman  by  a  moderate  yet  unmistakable 
accent. 

"  I  do  not  know  her  name,  but  I  often  see 
her  about  Notre  Dame.  A  pretty  girl,  eh. 
Doctor  Richard  ?  " 

"Not  very  pretty,"  dryly  replied  Doctor 
Richard,  "  but  very  bright.  She  lit  up  your 
shop,  Monsieur  Merand." 

"  Come,  you  shall  have  another  candle," 
said  Monsieur  Merand,  taking  the  hint.  "  You 
must  see  that  engraving  well  in  order  to  ap- 
preciate it." 

He  entered  the  dark  parlor  behind  his 
shop.  Doctor  Richard  remained  alone,  and 
he  wondered. 

"Where  can  I  have  seen  this  girl,  who 
wants  to  buy  Epictetus,  with  that  joyous 
face  ?  It  was  she  who  was  giving  milk  and 
eggs  to  the  cross  old  witch  on  the  staircase, 
but  I  knew  then  that  I  had  already  seen  her. 
When  and  where  was  it  ?  " 

Doctor  Richard's  memory  was  one  tenacious 
of  faces,  and  it  never  deceived  him.  Yes,  he 
had  certainly  seen  and  been  struck  with  that 
bright  face,  "  with  eyes  so  fair,"  like  Collins's 
Hope,  before  this  day.  Suddenly  the  remem- 
brance flashed  across  his  mind.  He  had  seen 
her  at  a  concert  six  months  ago,  a  bright, 
happy,  and  admired  girl.  He  remembered 
her  looks,  and  her  smiles,  and  her  bouquet  of 
rare  roses  on  her  lap — rare  for  the  season  of 
the  year.  He  remembered,  too,  some  vm- 
known  lady's  comment,  "Miss  Courtenay  is 
the  most  extravagant  girl.  Now,  these  roses 
cost  a  guinea,  at  least."  And  now  Epictetus 
was  too  dear  at  ten  francs.  And  the  milk  and 
eggs,  moreover,  suggested  a  strange  contrast 
between  the  present  and  the  past.  The  story 
of  her  losses  Doctor  Richard  had  also  heard, 
and  thinking  over  it,  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  mus- 
ing, whence  Monsieur  Merand,  returning  at 
length  with  the  candle,  roused  him.  But 
the  engraving,  on  being   seen  more   closely. 


MONSIEUR  MERAND. 


43 


proved  what  Doctor  Richard  was  pleased  to 
call  "  an  impostor."  He  put  it  down  with  a 
great  show  of  contempt,  and  looked  for  his 
hat, 

"  "Well,  then,  have  '  Epictetus,'  "  said 
Monsieur  Merand,  thrusting  the  book  toward 
him. 

"Not  I,"  curtly  replied  Doctor  Richard. 
"  Good-night,  Monsieur  Merand ;  you  must 
keep  better  wares  if  you  want  my  custom." 

"He  will  come  for  it  to-morrow,"  said 
Monsieur  Merand,  composedly,  putting  the 
engraving  aside ;  "  and  I  dare  say  he  will  take 
Epictetus  as  well.    I  saw  him  looking  at  it." 


CHAPTER  X. 

Mrs.  Cotjrtenat  was  getting  uneasy  when 
her  daughter  came  home. 

"  My  dear,  how  long  you  were !  "  she  said, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"It  is  very  far  away.  But  the  cheese  is 
perfect,  and — "  here  Dora  paused  in  dismay. 
The  cheese  might  be  a  first-rate  one,  and  was 
so,  no  doubt,  but  it  was  no  longer  in  her  pos- 
session. She  had  probably  left  it  at  the  bric- 
d-brac  shop. 

"  I  looked  at  a  book-stall  near  Notre  Dame," 
she  said,  feeling  Mrs.  Luan's  reproving  eye 
upon  her, "  and  I  must  have  forgotten  it  there. 
I  shall  go  back  for  it  at  once.  Pray  don't  wait 
tea  forme." 

She  was  gone  before  Mrs.  Courtenay  could 
remonstrate.  Within  a  few  minutes  Dora  had 
reached  Monsieur  Merand's  shop.  She  entered 
it  after  first  casting  a  look  at  the  book-stall, 
and  ascertaining  that  neither  Epictetus  nor  the 
cheese  was  there. 

"  You  come  for  Epictetus  ?  "  he  said,  recog- 
nizing her  at  once. 

"  No,  sir,  I  come  for  a  parcel  which  I  for- 
got." 


"  There  is  no  parcel.  Take  Epictetus  for 
nme  francs,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  is  still  too  dear  at  that  price,  thank 
you.     I  am  sure  I  left  my  parcel  here." 

She  looked  for  it,  but  without  assisting  her 
Monsieur  Merand  went  on : 

"  Let  us  make  an  exchange,  mademoiselle. 
Have  you  got  an  old  engraving  ?  I  am  very 
fond  of  an  old  engraving.  Look,  here  is  a 
stock  of  them  ! " 

He  opened  a  portfolio,  so  that  Dora  could 
not  help  seeing  its  contents. 

"  These  are  not  engravings,"  she  said ; 
"  these  are  crayon  drawings — and  very  bad 
ones  too,"  she  added,  shutting  up  the  port- 
folio, and  again  looking  for  her  missing 
cheese, 

"  Bad ! "  exclaimed  Monsieur  Merand,  throw- 
ing the  portfolio  open  once  more — "  you  call 
these  bad  !  Then,  mademoiselle,"  he  added, 
taking  off  his  hat  to  her  with  a  mock  polite- 
ness, which  was  not  impertinent,  "  I  will  make 
you  a  present  of  Epictetus  if  you  can  do  me 
a  head  like  this." 

Dora  smiled  a  little  scornfully.  She  drew 
tolerably  well,  and  she  knew  it ;  but  not  choos- 
ing to  enter  into  an  argument  with  Monsieur 
Merand,  she  quietly  remarked  that  as  he  had 
not  got  her  parcel  she  would  trouble  him  no 
longer. 

"  Is  this  your  parcel  ?  "  he  asked,  taking  it 
from  the  chair  on  ■which  it  had  lain  concealed 
all  the  time;  "  why,"  he  added,  smelling  it  and 
looking  at  her,  "  it  is  cheese  !  " 

Dora  began  to  think  that  this  Monsieur  Me- 
rand was  a  very  odd  man ;  but  he  looked  both 
good-humored  and  good-natured,  spite  his 
oddity,  and  she  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  It  is  cheese,"  she  said ;  "  but  pray  give  it 
to  me,  sir,  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

"  This  is  a  particularly  good  cheese,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  pensive  tone.  "  Now,"  he  added, 
giving  it  up  to  her  and  putting  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back,  "  it  is  a  pity  you  cannot  draw ; 


u 


DORA. 


I  would  have  let  you  have  Epictetus  for  a 
crayon  sketch  like  this ; "  and  he  took  and 
flourished  one  before  her  eyes. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  man  is  jesting,  or  if  he 
would  really  buy  my  drawings  ?  "  thought 
Dora,  suddenly  fluttered  at  the  golden  vision 
thus  opened  to  her. 

"  I  suppose,  sir,  you  are  in  earnest  ?  "  she 
remarked  doubtfully. 

"  To  be  sure  I  am  ;  but  can  you  draw  ?  " 

He  already  seemed  to  hesitate  and  draw 
back. 

"I  have  one  or  two  things  by  me,"  said 
Dora,  still  doubting  his  sincerity ;  "  shall  I 
show  them  to  you  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  kindly  re- 
plied Monsieur  Merand.  "I  am  a  severe  crit- 
ic, and — and  we  all  know  how  young  ladies 
draw." 

"  I  care  nothing  about  criticism,"  emphati- 
cally declared  Dora ;  "  besides,  I  can  keep  to 
my  own  opinion,  you  know,  which  is,  that  I 
can  produce  something  much  better  than  this." 

Monsieur  Merand's  breath  seemed  gone  at 
the  audacious  confession ;  but  Dora,  without 
waiting  for  him  to  recover  and  utter  some 
other  discouraging  speech,  bade  him  a  good- 
evening,  took  up  her  cheese,  and  walked  out 
of  the  shop. 

Even  Mrs.  Luan  noticed  how  bright  and  ex- 
cited Dora  looked  when  she  came  back, 

"Did  you  get  it?"  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

"  Here  it  is,"  replied  Dora,  gayly ;  "  and 
what  is  more,"  she  added,  tossing  off  her  bon- 
net and  shaking  her  bright  head,  "  I  think  I 
am  going  to  earn  cheeses  by  the  dozen !  "  She 
laughed  at  their  amazed  looks,  and  related  to 
them  what  had  passed,  adding  saucily,  "  And 
my  drawings  are  a  great  deal  better  than  his. 
It  would  not  take  me  more  than  two  days  to 
draw  such  a  head  as  he  showed  me.  Now, 
suppose  he  gave  me  ten  francs  a  head,  that 
would  be  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs  a  month, 
or  eighteen  hundred  francs  a  year.     Nay,  as 


'  to  that,  I  could  produce  a  drawing  a  day, 
which  would  make  three  thousand  francs  a 
year." 

Mrs.  Luan  put  down  her  patchwork  and 
stared  ;  whilst  Mrs.  Courtenay  said  innocently, 

"  Three  lumdred  and  sixty-five  drawings  a 
year ! " 

Dora  looked  bewildered  at  this  unexpected 
calculation,  then  she  remarked  in  a  much  more 
sober  tone : 

"  Well,  I  suppose  Monsieur  Merand  would 
scarcely  take  a  drawing  a  day.  No,  nor  yet 
one  every  other  day.  But  then,  he  may  give 
me  more  than  ten  francs  a  drawing,  you  see.  I 
shall  certainly  try  him  to-morrow,"  she  added, 
sitting  down  to  take  her  tea  with  the  com- 
posure of  an  old  woman  of  business. 

They  were  all  three  rather  elated  at  this  un- 
expected prospect.  Epictetus,  who  had  led  to 
this,  could  afford  to  despise  money,  live  in  a 
garret,  sleep  on  a  straw  mattress,  and  never 
lock  his  door ;  but  Dora  had  not  yet  reached 
these  sublime  heights  of  philosophy.  Money 
was  much  to  her.  Money  meant  a  little  of 
that  pleasure  and  relaxation  which  was  the 
grievous  want  of  her  new  life  ;  money,  too,  in 
this  case  meant  exertion,  and  a  motive  for  it ; 
no  wonder  then  that  Dora  looked  once  more 
as  bright  as  sunshine,  and  spent  a  restless, 
hopeful  night,  full  of  projects  and  dreams, 
some  sleeping  and  some  waking. 

Nevertheless,  Miss  Courtenay  felt  in  no  great 
hurry  to  try  her  fortunes  when  the  next  day 
came  round.  She  took  out  her  portfolio,  se- 
lected the  best  drawing  in  it,  and  looked  ac  it 
in  doubt.  Was  it,  after  all,  so  good  as  she 
had  thought  it  to  be  ?  Mrs.  Courtenay,  who 
felt  very  impatient  to  know  Monsieur  Merand's 
opinion  of  her  daughter's  production,  urged 
her  to  go  to  his  shop  early ;  but,  Dora  pru- 
dently said,  "  It  would  not  be  dignified,"  and 
she  lingered  until  she  suddenly  discovered  that 
if  she  did  not  go  at  once,  it  would  be  too  late 
to  go  at  all.  So  she  slipped  her  portfolio  under 


HIS  BARGAIN   WITH   DORA. 


45 


her  arm,  and  went  out  alone,  though  Mrs. 
Courtenay  first,  then  Mrs.  Luan  afterward, 
offered  to  accompany  her. 

"  No,"  decisively  said  Dora ;  "  I  will  not 
undertake  Monsieur  Merand  in  company." 

She  went,  and  her  mother,  and  even  her 
aunt,  looked  out  of  the  window  after  her.  Dora 
saw  them,  and  nodded  and  smiled  and  looked 
very  brave,  though  her  heart  beat  a  little.  She 
walked  briskly  whilst  she  was  within  view,  but 
slackened  her  pace  when  once  she  had  turned 
the  corner  of  the  street.  To  say  the  truth,  she 
felt  an  arrant  coward.  "  I  wonder  what  takes 
me  to  that  Monsieur  Merand,"  she  thought ; 
"I  could  do  without  Epictetus,  and  live  with- 
out that  odd  man's  money.  Perhaps  he  was 
only  laughing  at  me  yesterday,  and  that  I  shall 
have  had  a  sleepless  night  and  a  useless  walk 
for  my  pauis." 

"The  milk  and  eggs  were  very  good,  made- 
moiselle," said  a  cracked  voice;  "very  good  ; 
and  the  cup  is  beautiful ! " 

Dora  raised  her  eyes,  which  were  bent  on 
the  earth,  and  saw  the  little  old  woman  whose 
distress  she  had  reUeved  the  day  before. 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  she  replied,  with  a  sraile. 

"  And  what  is  your  name,  mademoiselle  ?  " 
promptly  asked  the  old  woman,  leaning  her 
head  toward  her  right  shoulder,  and  looking 
up  at  Dora  with  a  keen,  brown  eye,  that  bore 
no  token  of  age. 

"  I  cannot  tell  it  you,"  mysteriously  an- 
swered Dora ;  "  I  am  a  princess  in  disguise, 
and  it  is  a  great  secret ;  but,"  she  good- 
humoredly  added,  noticing  the  old  woman's 
blank  look,  "  I  know  where  you  live,  and  I 
shall  go  and  see  you." 

"  Do  ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  brightening. 
"  The  third  door  on  the  right  hand  on  the 
fourth  floor." 

"  You  poor  little  fairy,"  thought  Dora,  look- 
ing after  her,  as  the  little  old  woman  passed 

beneath  the  archway,  and  entered  the  house 

« 
where  she  had  seen  her  yesterday,  "  you  have 


seen  better  days,  I  am  sure.  And  I  wish  you 
were  a  fairy  indeed,  for  then  you  would  give 
me  wonderful  luck  in  exchange  for  my  milk 
and  eggs.  Whereas  I  do  believe  I  am  only 
going  to  get  a  humiliating  rebuff." 

She  had  half  a  mind  to  turn  back  as  she  en- 
tered Monsieur  Merand's  street.  But  it  was 
too  late  to  do  so.  Monsieur  Merand  stood  at 
his  door,  he  had  seen  her,  and  nodded  recog- 
nition in  a  half-friendly,  half-ironical  fashion. 
At  least,  so  thought  Dora. 

"  Oh  !  you  have  brought  the  drawing,"  he 
said,  as  she  approached.  * 

He  glanced  at  the  portfolio  under  her  arm. 

"  Yes,'-'  carelessly  replied  Dora,  entering 
the  shop.  "  I  hope  you  did  not  sell  Epic- 
tetus," she  added,  composedly,  perhaps  to  im- 
press the  dealer  with  the  fact  that  Epictetus 
was  the  summit  of  her  ambition. 

Monsieur  Merand  shook  his  head  compas- 
sionately, and  Dora  understood  his  meaning 
quite  well.  Of  course  he  had  not  sold  Epic- 
tetus, but  of  course  he  did  not  expect  to  part 
with  it  to  her  in  exchange  for  her  labor.  She 
began  to  feel  annoyed  at  his  impertinent  skep- 
ticism, and  somewhat  defiantly  she  opened 
her  portfoho  and  handed  him  the  sketch. 

"  Oh  !  that  is  it,  is  it  ?  "  said  Monsieur  Me- 
rand, taking  it  from  her  hand,  and  moving  to 
the  door,  in  order  to  have  as  much  light  as 
the  street  afforded  full  on  the  drawing.  Dora 
remained  in  the  gloomy  background,  and  looked 
at  him  with  a  beating  heart. 

Her  drawmg  was  taken  from  a  cast  of 
Michael  Angelo's  famous  "  Night."  The  weary 
goddess  hung  her  head,  heavy  with  sleep,  and 
seemed  to  forget  the  cares,  the  sorrows,  and 
the  sins  of  life,  in  those  deep  slumbers.  A  re- 
pose, which  was  not  that  of  death,  for  there 
was  suffering  in  it  still,  wrapped  the  whole 
figure,  and  was  well  expressed  in  the  bowed 
head.  Monsieur  Merand  looked  long  and  at- 
tentively, then  he  put  the  di-awing  down,  went 
to  the  other  cud  of  his  shop,  and  came  back 


46 


DORA. 


■with  a  book,  which  he  silently  placed  in 
Dora's  hands.  She  looked  at  it,  though  she 
truly  had  no  need  to  look.     It  was  Epictetus. 

There  are  delightful  moments  in  Hfe,  mo- 
ments of  boasting  and  triumph,  which  we 
never  forget.  Dora  had  a  genial,  happy  na- 
ture, keenly  susceptible  of  emotion,  as  all 
such  natures  are.  Her  heart  beat  with  joy  at 
this  little  success ;  her  eyes  sparkled,  and, 
alas  !  for  stoic  philosophy,  old  Epictetus  shook 
a  little  in  her  hands.  It  was  not  vanity,  it  was 
not  pride,  it  was  the  knowledge  that  she  had 
prevailed,  that  she,  too,  possessed  a  gift,  and 
that  this  gift  was  worth  something.  She  could 
not  speak,  she  could  not  trust  herself  to  say 
one  word — ^her  stammering  tongue  might  have 
betrayed  her.  Monsieur  Merand  addressed 
her  first. 

"  Of  course,"  he  said,  "  the  professor 
touched  up  that  drawing — but  it  is  no  busi- 
ness of  mine.  The  drawing  is  a  good  one, 
and  a  bargain  is  a  bargain." 

This  gave  Dora  her  tongue  back  again. 

"  Indeed,  sir,"  she  replied,  a  little  saucily, 
"  I  thought  you  were  too  good  a  judge  not  to 
know  when  a  drawing  had  been  '  touched  up,' 
or  not.  This  drawing  never  underwent  such 
treatment." 

"  It  is  yours — all  yours  ?  "  exclaimed  Mon- 
sieur Merand,  in  thp  tone  of  a  question. 

"  I  do  not  say  that,"  replied  Dora,  not  un- 
willing to  mystify  him  ;  "  but  I  say  that  it  is 
the  work  of  one  hand." 

Monsieur  Merand's  face  fell. 

"  Then  you  have  no  more  such  ?  "  he  said, 
seeming  rather  annoyed. 

"  I  did  not  say  that  either,"  retorted  Dora, 
rnuch  amused.  "  Do  you  really  wish  for 
more  ?  " 

"  Let  us  deal  openly,"  suggested  Monsieur 
Merand,  putting  on  a  look  of  great  candor.  "  I 
care  not  who  docs  these  drawings,  but  will 
you  let  me  have  more  by  the  same  hand — say 
two  to  begin  with  ?  " 


"  But  not  for  ten  francs  a  piece,"  suggested 
Dora,  looking  grave. 

"  No,  this  and  the  others  shall  be  twenty. 
Epictetus  and  fifty  francs  for  the  three." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  Dora,  after  a  pause, 
seemingly  given  to  deliberation,  but  really  af- 
forded to  joy.     "  Are  you  in  a  hurry  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  them  this  week.  To-day  is 
Tuesday — say  by  Saturday,  eh  ?  " 

"Very  well,"  again  answered  Miss  Cour- 
tenay,  doing  her  best  to  look  careless  and 
business-like.     "  Good-moming,  sir." 

She  gave  Monsieur  Merand  a  pretty,  conde- 
scending nod ;  "  for  he  must  be  in  my  power, 
and  not  I  in  his,"  she  thought,  as  she  leisurely 
walked  down  the  street,  till  she  reached  a 
side-door  of  Notre  Dame,  which  she  entered. 

Dora  felt  happy,  and  happiness  with  her  at 
once  found  its  way  into  prayer  and  thanks-' 
giving.  The  grand  old  church,  with  its  mighty 
columns  and  gorgeous  windows,  could  not  awe 
her,  or  turn  her  joy  into  other  channels.  Yes, 
life  is  brief,  and  ettrnity  awaits  us  all ;  but 
life  is  sweet,  too,  and  its  joys  are  keen,  and 
gladness,  also,  is  a  form  of  worship.  So  Dora 
felt ;  but  a  sunbeam  stealing  in,  lighting  up 
the  aisle,  and  falling  on  a  grave-stone,  whence 
the  word  "Requiescat"  suddenly  seemed  to 
flash  forth,  turncB  Dora's  joy  to  chill  and  sad 
regret.  Requiescat!  The  word  was  written 
on  Paul's  grave,  in  Glasnevin.  She  triumphed, 
she  had  her  little  joy  and  her  little  boast,  and 
he  had  been  denied  his.  He  had  gone  down 
to  his  premature  rest,  and  he  slept  too  early 
a  sleep  because  of  that  disappointment. 

"  Oh  !  my  brother ! — my  brother  ! "  thought 
Dora,  her  tears  flowing  at  the  thought,  "  how 
can  I  be  happy  and  forget  you  ?  " 

But  did  she  really  forget  him  ?  Was  not 
his  remembrance  ever  in  her  heart,  ready  to 
rise  at  the  first  whisper?  Did  she  not  remem- 
ber him  in  joy,  because  he  did  not  share  it ; 
in  sorrow,  because  he  would  have  borne  it 
with  her ;  in  every  thing  of  weal  or  woe,  which 


THE  PICTUEE-GALLERT. 


47 


stirred  her  heart  or  passed  through  her  life. 
If  she  now  lingered  in  that  ancient  church, 
was  it  not  to  think  in  peace  of  him  ?  When 
she  roused  herself  with  a  "I  must  go  in,"  it 
was  with  a  sort  of  pain;  so  dear  was  that 
thought,  so  hard  it  was  to  bid  it  once  more 
return  to  those  depths  of  her  heart  where  it 
slumbered,  indeed,  but  ever  ready  to  waken ! 

"  Well ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  from  the 
window. 

Dora  looked  up,  and  saw  her  mother's  face 
looking  down  at  her.  She  laughed  saucily, 
showed  her  the  book,  and  sprang  up-stairs. 
No  sunbeam  was  brighter  than  Dora  when  she 
broke  in  upon  her  mother  and  her  aunt. 

"  Victory,  victory !  "  she  cried,  clapping  her 
hands,  after  throwing  poor  Epictetus  on  the 
nearest  chair.  "  Monsieur  Merand  gives  me 
twenty  francs  a  drawing,  and  wants  two  more 
by  Saturday.  We  shall  be  quite  rich  now, 
and  Pactolus — is  it  Pactolus? — is  going  to 
flow  in  the  room." 

"That  is  delightful!"  cried  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay, with  her  little  shrill  raising  of  the  voice. 
"  Oh  !  quite  delightful ! " 

Mrs.  Luan,  who  looked  a  little  flushed  and 
excited,  stared  hard  at  Dora,  and  said, 

"  Where  is  the  money  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  got.  it  yet,  aunt.  By  next 
Saturday  I  hope  to  shovr  you  two  Napoleons 
aild  a  half.  I  wonder  what  drawings  I  ought 
to  let  him  have." 

She  brought  out  her  portfolio,  and  the  three 
looked  over  its  contents.  Dora  selected  a 
Niobe  and  a  Dying  Gladiator,  Mrs.  Courtenay 
opined  for  a  Sleeping  Ariadne  and  a  Cupid, 
and  Mrs.  Luan  reckoned  up  Dora's  drawings, 
and  valuing  each  at  twenty  francs  apiece, 
made  up,  mentally  of  course,  a  goodly  sum. 

"  The  Ariadne  is  much  better  than  the  Niobe, 
my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  nodding  her 
cap  emphatically. 

Dora  looked  at  the  two  as  only  artists  can 
look  at  their  own  work.     She  liked  them  both. 


and  now  that  she  had  a  market  for  them,  she 
regretted  parting  with  them.  She  remem- 
bered how  that  sleeping  woman,  unconscious 
of  abandonment,  had  charmed  her ;  how  the 
meaning  of  that  fine  antique  had  stolen  upon 
her,  the  more  she  studied  it.  And  then  the 
Niobe !  The  immortal  sorrow  in  those  up- 
raised eyes,  and  in  those  parted  lips ! 

"  Let  them  both  go,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
sigh,  and  putting  them  away  as  she  spoke. 
"  I  shall  keep  the  Cupid  and  the  Dying  Gladi- 
ator— for  another  time,  if,  as  I  hope,  Monsieur 
Merand  will  want  them.  And  now,  mamma, 
^ince  I  am  getting  rich  again,  we  shall  take 
drives  in  the  country,  and  you  and  aunt  must 
get  a  silk  dress  each,  and  I  shall  try  books, 
and  hire  a  piano." 

Mrs.  Luan's  patchwork  fell  from  her  hands 
on  her  lap,  and  she  stared  at  Dora  with  un- 
mitigated astonishment.  Had  the  girl  gone 
crazy,  for  how  could  she  expect  to  achieve  all 
this  with  fifty  francs  ? 

Dora  laughed  a  clear,  ringing  laugh. 

"  I  will  do  all  that,  aunt,"  she  said  wilfully, 
"  and  a  great  deal  more.  I  wonder  what  old 
Epictetus  has  to  say  on  the  subject  ?  " 

She  took  up  the  volume,  and  sitting  with  it 
on  her  lap  by  the  open  window,  she  soon  be- 
came absorbed  and  grave.  Epictetus'  spoke 
of  virtue,  of  heroism,  endurance,  and  self-de- 
nial, but  said  not  one  word  of  drives  in  the 
country,  silk  dresses,  or  musical  instnmients 
of  any  kind. 


CHAPTER  XJ. 

The  event  proved  Dora  to  have  been  in  her 
senses  when  she  foretold  the  golden  results 
which  were  to  accrue  from  her  connection  with 
Monsieur  Merand.  He  took  the  Niobe  and 
the  Ariadne  without  hesitation,  and  asked  for 
more. 

•'I  have  got  a  Cupid  and  a  Dying  Gladi- 


48 


DORA. 


ator,"  replied  Dora,  with  a  gentle  thrill  of 
emotion. 

"Will  you  let  me  see  them?  "  asked  Mon- 
sieur Merand,  rather  eagerly. 

"  Yes,  to-morrow,"  she  answered,  quietly. 

She  brought  them  the  next  morning.  Mon- 
sieur Merand  purchased  them  at  once,  put 
them  away  very  carefully  in  a  portfolio,  then 
said,  gravely : 

"  Mademoiselle,  could  you  copy  in  crayons 
a  few  heads  from  a  painting  in  our  gallery 
here  ?  " 

"  I  can  try." 

"  Then  you  are  not  sure  ?  " 

"I  can  try,"  said  Dora  again;  and  her 
bright  smile  expressed  the  certainty  of  suc- 
cess. 

"Well,  then,  here  is  the  catalogue;  this  is 
the  picture — HemmeUng's.  The  heads  are 
marked ;  size  of  the*  original.  Take  your 
time,  mademoiselle.  I  am  in  no  hurry,  and 
should  like  the  drawings  to  be  good." 

"  I  shall  do  my  best,"  answered  Dora,  with 
a  wistful  look,  for  she  already  felt  less  confi- 
fident  of  success.  Instead  of  going  home,  she 
went  straight  to  the  Musce.  With  a  beating 
heart  she  passed  by  the  majestic  front  of  Saint 
Ouen,  and  turning  round  the  edifice,  found 
herself  in  its  deep  shadow,  facing  the  narrow 
door  which  leads  to  the  picture-gallery.  Sight- 
seers were  scarce  that  day;  Dora  met  none. 
She  went  up  the  broad  stone  staircase  alone, 
and  went  in  the  mood  of  one  going  to  meet 
her  fate.  These  pictures,  which  she  had  often 
looked  at  with  a  calm  critical  eye,  now  seemed 
to  her  like  so  many  judges  waiting  for  her,  the 
future  culprit.  ,  The  door  of  the  library  was 
open ;  within,  a  broad  cool  room,  Dora  could 
see  a  few  gentlemen  reading.  She  remem- 
bered the  days  of  Mr.  Ryan's  library,  and  Paul's 
eager  labors  and  sad  failure,  and  she  quailed 
to  think  that  she,  too,  perhaps,  v/as  bent  on  a 
task  beyond  her  strength. 

She  looked  around  her  for  comfort,  and 


found  none.  The  statues  which  adorn  the 
hall,  the  severe  Augustus,  the  v/rithing  Lao- 
coon,  the  cold  Pudicitia,  had  little  sympathy 
with  a  girl's  trouble  or  with  her  fears.  What 
did  the  Roman  emperor  care  for  the  triumph 
or  defeat  of  her  little  ambition  ?  What  was 
it  to  the  victim  of  Apollo's  revenge  that  she 
failed  or  succeeded?  As  for  Pudicitia,  nhe 
would  surely  have  said,  if  consulted  by  Miss 
Courtenay,  "  Stay  at  home  and  spin  wool." 

"  What  is  there  between  these  Greeks  and 
Romans  that  they  should  meet  us  at  every 
path  ? "  thought  Dora,  a  httle  resentfully ; 
"  They  can  soothe  no  grief,  raise  no  hope, 
dispel  no  trouble.  Why  have  we  not,  then, 
the  images  of  our  own  flesh  and  blood,  of  our 
own  heroes  around  us,  like  the  painter  below 
with  his  pallet  in  his  marble  hand  ?  It  would 
be  cheering  to  see  a  Bernard  de  Palissy  there 
instead  of  that  Laocoon  and  his  heathen  ser 
pents.  Poor  and  little  as  I  am,  that  obstinate 
Bernard,  who  fought  so  hard  a  battle,  is  kith 
and  kin  to  me,  arid  these  are  nothing — oh ! 
surely  nothing  !  "  and  still  she  stood  with  the 
catalogue  in  her  hand,  hesitating  to  enter  the 
rooms,  within  which,  in  her  present  mood  "at 
least,  her  fate  seemed  to  lie.  True,  failure 
would  not  be  ruin,  but  it  would  be  humiliar 
tion,  and  that  surely  has  its  bitterness. 

But  when  Dora  entered  the  sunlit  rooms, 
and  wandered  through  them,  looking  at  the 
quaint  old  pictures  with  their  stiff,  staring 
faces,  she  felt  hopeful  once  more.  It  did  not 
seem  so  very  hard  to  prevail  and  get  the  better 
of  these  grun  personages.  Yet  how  fine,  when 
you  looked  into  them,  were  some,  and  how 
correct  was  Monsieur  Merand's  taste !  Every 
head  he  had  chosen  had  its  chafacter  and  its 
beauty. 

■     "  If  he  is  so  good  a  judge,"  thought  Dora, 
"I  shall  get  afraid  of  him." 

But  fear  is  not  a  logical  feeling.  Dora,  as 
she  looked  over  Monsieur  Merand's  selection, 
felt  cheerful,  and  not  despondent.     Her  buoy- 


NANETTE  AND   TUE   PORTRAIT. 


49 


ant  nature  rose  with  the  magnitude  of  the 
task  laid  upon  her.  Tha^  would  be  a  tame 
journey  of  adventure  indeed  which  should 
have  no  path  beset  with  perils.  The  toil  that 
has  no  difficulties  surely  has  no  charm. 

On  her  way  home,  Dora  resolved  to  go  and 
see  the  old  fairy,  as  she  mentally  called  her. 
The  poor  woman's  real  name  was  Nanette — 
so  Dora  had  learned ;  also,  that  Nanette  bore 
an  unexceptionable  character  for  everything 
save  temper. 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  lucky,"  thought  Dora, 
climbing  up  the  dingy  staircase  that  led  to 
Nanette's  room.  ''  The  eggs  I  gave  her  are 
fast  turning  into  gold,  and  as  for  the  milk,  we 
all  know  it  is  the  symbol  of  abundance." 

Nanette's  door  was  open,  so  Dora  had  no 
trouble  in  finding  her.  Nanette  lived  in  a  room 
which  was  about  the  size  of  a  large  cupboard, 
but  which  was  exquisitely  clean  and  neat,  and 
Nanette,  being  as  small  and  as  neat  and  as 
clean  as  her  room,  looked  more  than  ever  like 
a  fairy,  in  Dora's  opinion.  A  cross  fairy  she 
was  just  then,  scolding  a  charcoal  fire,  which 
would  not  kindle. 

"  Ah !  you  will  not,  eh  ?  "  she  said,  angrily, 
and  vainly  using  a  bellows  beyond  her  strength 
— "  you  know  I  am  old,  you  do !  " 

"  Let  me  try,"  said  Dora,  looking  in. 

She  took  the  bellows  from  Nanette's  hand, 
and  lo  !  in  a  trice  the  fire  was  bright. 

"  Yes,  you  are  young,"  said  Nanette,  with  a 
wistful  look, "  and  you  can  work.  I  cannot ! — I 
cannot !  I  am  seventy-three,  and  I  cannot 
work,  and  have  to  live  on  charity,"  she  added, 
with  an  angry  flash  in  her  brown  eye. 

Dora  tried  to  soothe  her,  but  Nanette  would 
admit  of  no  consolation.  Her  temper  was 
roused  again.  Dora  wanted  her  to  have  more 
milk  and  eggs,  but  Nanette  scorned  the  offer. 
"  She  took  charity,  but  she  was  not  a  beggar," 
she  said,  loftily.  "  An  accident  was  an  acci- 
dent, but  she  did  not  want  milk  and  eggs  daily." 

Dora  suggested  bacon,  but  greatly  imperilled 
4 


her  power  of  fascination  by  doing  so.  Na- 
nette's brown  eye  burned  like  a  live  coal.  It 
turned  out  that  bacon  was  her  particular  aver- 
sion. 

"  Yes,  you  are  a  cross  fairy,"  thought  Dora, 
"  but  for  all  that,  I  shall  pr*;vail  over  you  once 
more."  So  she  made  no  further  offers,  but 
gently  drew  out  Nanette.  She  learned  how- 
Nanette  had  been  rich — quite  rich.  She  had 
earned  as  much  as  seventy  francs  in  one  month 
by  lace-mending,  but  now  her  eyesight  was 
gone,  and  her  hand  was  unsteady,  and  there 
were  days  when  Nanette  could  not  get  up,  she 
was  so  weak,  and  then  she  lay  sleepless  all 
night.  "  When  the  moon  shone  in  at  her  win- 
dow, and  lit  up  her  room,  it  was  well  and  good  ; 
but  when  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  room 
was  black,  it  was  very  dreary,  you  see." 

Dora's  bright  eyes  flashed  with  triumph. 

"  I  shall  give  you  a  pound  of  candles,"  she 
said. 

Nanette  was  fairly  conquered.  Candles^ 
were  the  secret  desire  of  her  heart.  Even 
pride  and  ill-temper  could  not  reject  such  a 
boon.  She  put  her  withered  hand  on  Dora's, 
and  looked  up  in  her  face. 

"  I  shall  show  it  to  you,"  she  said.  "  Doctor 
Richard  wants  it,  but  I  would  not  let  him  see 
it — not  I ;  but  you  shall  see  it ! " 

She  unlocked  a  square  box  on  the  floor, 
fumbled  in  it,  then  drew  out  a  velvet  case, 
which  she  opened,  but  jealously  kept  in  her 
hand.  Dora  might  look,  but  by  no  means 
touch.  This  treasure,  which  was  a  treasure 
indeed,  was  an  ancient  and  exq\jisite  enamel 
portrait.  It  showed  Dora  a  young  girl  in  all 
the  bloom  and  radiance  of  youth,  and  with 
hair  of  a  golden  brown. 

"  Yes,"  said  Nanette,  as  Dora  gave  a  little 
start,  "  it  is  like  you ;  you  have  the  same  hair 
— I  saw  that  at  once.  And  she  was  a  great, 
great  lady,  and  my  great-great-grandmother, 
too,"  added  Nanette,  "  and  no  one  shall  have 
it!"  she  angrily  continued,  shutting  up  the 


50 


DORA. 


case,  and  putting  away  the  portrait  hurriedly ; 
"  and  he  shall  not  even  see  it !  "  she  said,  with 
a  sort  of  scream,  meant  for  Doctor  Richard. 

"  My  poor  old  fairy  !  "  thought  Dora,  as  she 
left  Nanette,  and  went  down  the  staircase,  "  I 
fear  your  luck  is  all  for  me,  and  that  you  can 
keep  none  for  yourself.  Are  you  indeed  the 
descendant  of  that  bright-looking  lady  in  rich 
blue  velvet  ?  You  may  have  mended  the  ex- 
quisite point  your  great-great-grandmother,  as 
you  call  her,  wore  round  her  white  neck,  and 
been -paid  for  your  labor  by  the  great-great- 
grand-daughter  of  her  chambermaid.  And 
that  lady's  face  and  mine  are  not  unlike.  I 
never  was  so  pretty,  but  still  there  is  a  sort  of 
national  likeness.  Who  knows  but  the  origi- 
nal was  the  daughter  of  some  Irish  Jacobite 
who  came  over  with  James  Stuart  ?  I  may  be 
Nanette's  seventeenth  cousin,  for  all  I  can  tell. 
And  Nanette  shall  have  milk,  and  eggs,  and 
butter,  since  bacon  will  not  do,  and  candles, 
by  all  means,  for  the  sake  of  the  grand  rela- 
tionship we  all  have  in  Father  Adam." 

She  sent  in  her  gifts  at  once,  and  that  same 
evening,  looking  up  to  Nanette's  window,  she 
saw  a  light  burning  in  it.  The  night  was  black 
and  sultry ;  neither  moon  nor  stars  were  out, 
but  it  did  Dora  good  to  see  that  light,  and  to 
know  that  the  lonely  old  woman  need  not  fret 
her  poor  heart  away  in  the  darkness.  When 
she  turned  back  from  the  window  the  smile  on 
her  face  was  so  bright,  that  it  puzzled  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

"  My  dear,  you  look  very  happy,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  qjpa  happy,"  replied  Dora ;  but  she 
said  nothing  about  Nanette  and  the  caudles. 
She  would  have  told  her  mother,  if  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay could  have  kept  a  secret  from  Mrs. 
Luan,  but  that  was  impossible.  And  as  it 
would  have  been  cruel  to  make  poor  Mrs. 
Luan  wretched  by  letting  her  know  Dora's  ex- 
travagance, her  niece  kept  her  own  counsel. 

"  And  you  look  happy,  too,  mamma,"  con- 
tinued Dora,  approaching  the  table,  and  look- 


ing over  her  shoulder  at  the  cards  spread  upon 
it.     "  I  see  you  haie  been  successful." 

"  So  successful ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay ;  "  all  the  cards  came  out.  And  as  I 
luckily  did  it  for  a  wish,  I  am  quite  sure  you 
will  get  on  with  Monsieur  Merand." 

Dora  laughed,  and  said  there  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it. 

Having  procured  the  requisite  permission, 
Dora  began  her  task  the  next  day.  The  Mu- 
see  was  a  quiet  place — two  or  three  old  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  been  painting  there  for  the 
last  twenty  years,  were  her  only  companions. 
They  looked  as  antique,  and  they  were  as  si- 
lent as  the  pictures  they  copied ;  but  for  the 
bright  sun  shining  in  the  place  below,  and  the 
sound  of  carriages  rolling  on  its  stones,  Dora 
might  have  fancied  herself- in  some  enchanted 
palace.  She  liked  this  tranquillity.  She  hked 
her  task  too ;  and  as  it  progressed,  and  she 
felt  that  she  was  successful,  she  loved  it. 
With  a  cheerful  heart  she  left  home  in  the 
morning ;  with  a  sense  of  happiness  she  went 
up  the  stone  staircase  and  entered  the  rooms 
where  her  silent  friends  and  companions,  the 
pictures,  were  waiting  for  her. .  With  a  fatigue 
which  was  welcome,  for  it  meant  labor,  suc- 
cess, and  money,  she  put  by  her  drawing 
when  the  day  was  over,  and  the  keeper  gave 
out  the  summons  to  depart.  Happy  are  the 
women  who  have  to  toil  for  their  bread  in 
some  loved  vocation.  The  curse  of  labor  is 
lightened  for  them,  and  sweetened  into  a  bless- 
ing. Happy  they  before  whom  the  fair  fields 
of  art  lie  open.  Small  though  the  harvest  may 
be — not  unto  all  are  plenteous  crops  given — it 
is  pure  wheat,  pure  and  good.  Happy,  there- 
fore, was  now  Dora  Courteuay.  Monsieur  Ma- 
raud praised  the  first  samples  of  her  skill,  and 
Dora's  taste  and  judgment  confirmed  his  ap- 
proval. The  results  of  her  labor  were  satis- 
factory in  every  sense.  Ere  long  she  was  in 
the  receipt  of  an  income  varying  from  ten  to 
fifteen  pounds  a  month.     Thanks  to  this  an- 


THE  DUBOIS  FAMILY. 


51 


expected  piece  of  good  fortune,  comfort  under 
many  shapes  crept  into  their  home.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan  had  their  promised 
silk  dresses ;  now  and  then  a  carriage  drew 
up  at  Madame  Bertrand's  door,  and  took  her 
lodgers  away  for  the  day  in  the  lovely  environs 
of  Rouen ;  and  every  evening  the  sounds  of  a 
piano  stole  out  of  Dora's  window,  and  filled 
the  dull  old  street  with  brilliant  music.  The 
change  made  her  very  happy.  It  was  not 
merely  the  money,  though  that  was  welcome, 
it  was  also  and  especially  the  sense  of  leading 
a  useful  and  active  life,  which  charmed  her. 
She  had  been  pooi",  and  she  had  been,  if  not 
rich,  at  least  in  easy  circumstances,  but  never 
before  this  time  had  she  earned  money,  never 
had  she  felt  independent,  and  one  in  the  great 
scheme  of  social  life.  It  was  a  delightful  feel- 
ing, and  the  more  delightful  that  habit  and 
time  had  not  yet  deadened  its  enjoyments  and 
destroyed  its  freshness.  And  thus  the  happy 
summer  stole  away. 

On  a  bright  afternoon  in  September,  Dora, 
on  leaving  the  picture-gallery,  went  to  the 
house  of  a  poor  gilder  out  of  work,  from  whom 
she  had  ordered  a  frame  a  month  back  for  a 
drawing  she  had  undertaken  on  her  own  ac- 
count. 4^eries  of  misfortunes  had  prevented 
Dubois  fr-om  keeping  his  promise.  Dora  had 
been  patient  and  forbearing,  and  generous 
even,  but  now  her  patience  was  out,  and  she 
entered  the  dark  lane  at  the  end  of  which 
Dubois  lived,  prepared  to  bestow  nothing  upon 
him  save  a  severe  scolding.  "  I  shall  not  be 
at  all  good-natured,"  she  thought ;  "  but  very 
firm  and  digiiified."  As  she  came  to  this 
austere  resolve,  Dora  reached  the  gilder's 
door,  but  when  a  dirty  child  admitted  her 
within,  and  she  once  more  saw  the  poverty- 
strieken  aspect  of  the  place,  her  heart  re- 
lented. 

There  is  a  terrible  resemblance  between  all 
poor  homes.  Place  them  i^i  what  latitude, 
under  what  sky  you  will,  they  are  akin  in 


three  essential  characteristics — darkness,  dirt, 
and  dinginess ;  we  do  not  speak  of  exceptions, 
but  of  the  general  rule.  Some  features,  too, 
they  have  in  common  to  a  singular  degree. 
Why,  for  instance,  must  the  poor  be  every- 
where so  fond  of  poultry  ?  The  Dubois  had 
three  children,  but  they  also  found  room  -for 
a  white  hen,  which  went  scratching  and  cack- 
ling about  their  two  rooms.  Dora  had  often 
looked  at  that  hen  with  a  secret  shudder,  in- 
spired by  the  thought  that  it  might  possibly 
be  killed,  taken  to  market,  and  there  pur- 
chased by  Mrs.  Luan  for  home  consumption. 
"  It  must  be  such  a  fowl  as  this  that  she 
brought  home  last  week,"  thought  Dora,  now 
watching  the  wretched  bird  as  it  wandered 
under  an  old  bedstead,  and  looked  ghost-like 
in  that  gloomy  refuge ;  "  one  should  really 
know  more  about  the  creatures  one  eats,  and 
what  their  rearing  has  been,  for  instance." 

"  Mademoiselle  is  looking  at  the  white  hen," 
said  Madame  Dubois,  a  dirty  young  woman. 
"  Catch  it,  Joseph,  and  let  Mademoiselle  feel 
how  fat  it  is  getting." 

In  vain  Mademoiselle  protested.  Joseph  was 
already  on  his  knees  groping  under  the  bed- 
stead ;  but  just  as  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  seize  her,  the  white  hen  artfully  slipped 
under  a  chest  of  drawers. 

"  Shall  I  get  a  stick  and  poke  her  out  ?  " 
asked  Joseph,  coming  out  from  under  the  bed 
very  red  in  the  face,  and  much  the  worse  for 
the  dust  he  had  found  there.  On  hearing  this 
suggestion,  the  white  hen  cackled  a  feeble 
protest,  and  Madame  Dubois  angrily  promised 
Joseph  the  best  slap  he  had  ever  had  in  Iiis 
life  if  he  made  the  attempt.  Dora  now  ex- 
pounded her  errand.  Madame  Dubois  clasped 
her  hands  and  looked  piteous. 

They  were  the  most  unfortunate  people. 
Poor  Dubois  had  hurt  his  hand,  his  right  hand, 
and  was  gone  to  the  chemist's  to  get  it  dressed, 
That  was  their  luck. 

'I  Well,  you  are  unlucky,"  kindly  said  Dora. 


52 


DORA. 


"  But  where  is  the  frame  ?  I  want  to  see  that 
it  is  of  the  right  size." 

Madame  Dubois  looked  despondent.  They 
were  so  unhicky  that  she  had  not  liked  to  tell 
Mademoiselle,  but  just  as  the  frame  was  ready 
to  be  gilt,  Joseph  and  the  hen  had  combined 
against  it,  and  broken  it  that  very  morning. 
Dora  nearly  lost  patience,  but  again  pity  pre- 
vailed, and  with  a  few  kind,  comforting  words,' 
and  a  little  donation,  she  left  this  abode  of  ill- 
luck.  The  sight  of  continued  misfortune  is 
oppressive,  and  Dora  breathed  a  little  sigh  of 
relief  as  she  got  out  again  into  the  free  and 
open  air. 

"  I  never  knew  such  unlucky  people,"  she 
thought.  "It  is  simply  dreadful ;  and  if  these 
were  the  days  of  witchcraft,  I  should  say  that 
the  white  hen  was  at  the  bottom  of  it.  And 
who  knows  but  she  is?  Who  knows  that 
sorcery  has  really  gone  by  with  the  Middle 
Ages  ?  What  are  all  these  grim  old  Gothic 
monuments  which  have  remained,  but  stone 
legends?  Why  may  not  goblins  and  evil 
spirits  abide  in  their  walls,  as  they  are  said  to 
live  in  waste  places?  Suppose  one  of  the 
frightful  stone  chimeras  that  peep  down  at 
you  from  the  water-spouts  and  buttresses, 
should  take  a  fancy  to  be  alive,  and  suiting 
itself  to  modem  ideas  and  habits,  should  as- 
sume a  more  sober  shape  than  it  received  from 
its  Gothic  carver  ?     Suppose,  too — " 

Here«Dora's  fancies  received  a  sudden  check. 
She  "stood  at  Monsieur  Merand's  door,  and  as 
she  had  a  drawing  for  him  in  her  portfolio,  she 
was  recalled  from  the  world  in  which  stone  be- 
co'mes  animate,  to  that  in  which  drawings  are 
exchanged  for  coined  gold  and  silver.  With 
a  cheerful  sense  of  labor,  and  reward,  and  use- 
fulness upon  her.  Miss  Courtenay  entered  the 
shop. 

Monsieur  Merand  was  not  alone.  That 
Doctor  Richard,  whom  we  have  already  seen 
there,  was  with  him.  He  looked  for  his  cane 
as  if  to  go,  but  Monsieur  Merand  said  eagerly. 


"  Xot  without  taking  that  engraving,  Doctor 
Richard — you  must  have  it." 

Dora  was  struck,  and  amused,  too,  at  Doc- 
tor Richard's  look.  It  was  both  shrewd  and 
boyish — a  school-boy  look.  Doctor  Richard 
was  past  thirty,  yet  there  was  fun  and  mis- 
chief in  his  swarthy  face,  and  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"I  should  not  care  to  have  that  Doctor 
Richard  attending  on  me  if  I  were  ill,"  thought 
Dora.  "  I  am  sure  he  laughs  at  all  his  patients. 
Has  he  patients  ?  "  she  mentally  added,  seeing 
that  his  clothes,  though  scrupulously  neat  and 
clean,  had  seen  some  wear. 

"  Come,  have  it,"  urged  Monsieur  Merand. 

"  Not  on  those  terms.  Did  I  not  tell  you  I 
was  a  ruined  man  ?  " 

"  Come,  Doctor  Richard,  those  mines  did  not 
take  all  your  money." 

"  They  plucked  some  good  feathers  from  my 
wing,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Mines  !  has  he  lost  in  mines  ?  "  thought 
Dora.  "  Not  our  mines,  I  hope."  For  the 
slender  provision  remaining  to  her  mother  and 
aunt  was  invested  in  tin-mines  in  the  west  of 
England. 

Some  more  arguing  ensued  between  the 
dealer  and  his  customer,  but  the  latter  prov- 
ing obdurate.  Monsieur  Merand  pu^jjaway  the 
engraving,  and  Doctor  Richard  walked  out  of 
the  shop  without  seeming  to  see  Dora.  She 
looked  after  him  with  a  vague  fear  at  her 
heart.  How  she  would  have  questioned  him 
concerning  his  losses  if  she  had  dared  !  Mon- 
sieur Merand  saw  her  look,  and  he  tapped  his 
forehead. 

"  A  good  gentleman,"  he  said,  "  a  very  good, 
humane  gentleman — attends  on  half  the  poor 
in  Rouen  for  nothing — ^but  not  right  there,  you 
know." 

"Ho  has  had  losses,"  remarked  Dora. 

"  Yes,  the  news  came  this  afternoon.  I  am 
sorry  for  him,  poor  fellow !  " 

Dora  was  untying  the  strings  of  her  port- 
folio.    Her  hands  shook  a  little. 


DK.  RICHARD  COMMUNICATES  BAD  NEWS. 


53 


"Pray  where  are  those  mines  ?  "  she  asked, 
trying  to  speak  carelessly. 

Monsieur  Merand  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  raised  his  eyebrows,  and  shook  his 
head.  His  answer  was  a  doubtful  one.  The 
mines  were  in  England,  then  in  Wales,  then 
in  Cornwall.  Dora,  who  had  breathed  a  re- 
lieved sigh,  felt  faint  and  sick  again. 

"I  hope — I  trust  they  are  not  those  of 
which  my  mother  holds  some  shares,"  she 
said. 

Some,  alas !  she  might  have  said  all  that 
Mrs.  Courtenay  possessed  was  thus  invested. 
The  anxiety  and  distress  on  her  countenance 
struck  Monsieur  Merand. 

"  Shall  I  ask  Doctor  Richard  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Merand,  do,  pray.  It  will 
oblige  me.  It  is  very  foolish  of  me  to  think 
anything  of  the  kind  ;  but  we  have  had  losses 
already,  and  that  makes  me  timorous." 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  see  him  this  evening,  or 
to-morrow  at  the  latest,"  continued  Monsieur 
Merand,  "  and  then — why,  here  he  is  !  "  he 
added,  breaking  off  as  Doctor  Richard  re- 
entered the  shop. 

Something  in  their  two  faces  showed  Doctor 
Richard  that  they  were  talking  of  him.  He 
bent  his  full  black  eyes  on  either  alternately, 
and  his  countenance  assumed  a  sudden  look 
of  mistrust,  not  unmingled  with  defiance. 
Monsieur  Merand  stood  on  ceremony  with  no 
one.  In  a  few  words  he  exposed  Miss  Cour- 
tenay's  anxiety,  and  her  purpose  in  inquiring. 
No  kind  and  courteous  periphrasis  marked 
Doctor  Richard's  answer.  He  was  a  quick 
and  sure  surgeon,  and  did  not  prolong  Dora's 
agony. 

"  The  Redmore  Mines,"  was  his  brief  reply. 

Dora  turned  pale  ;  but  uttered  not  one  word 
affirst.  They  both  looked  at  her  anxiously 
and  gravely. 

"  These  are  the  mines,"  she  said,  at  length. 
After  a  while  she  added,  looking  at  Doctor 
Richard,  "  Will  there  be  nothing  left  ?  " 


"Scarcely  a  sixpence  in  the  pound,  I  Inv 
licve;  but  no  lane  can  tell  yet." 

It  was  ruin.  A  second  ruin,  deeper,  fuller 
than  the  first. 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  said  Dora,  after  an- 
other pause.  "Here  is  your  drawing,  Mon- 
sieur Merand ! " 

She  gave  it  to  him  as  she  spoke. 

"I  shall  want  another  soon,"  he  said, 
quickly. 

She  nodded  assent,  bowed  to  Doctor  Rich- 
ard, and  left  the  shop  without  uttering  an- 
other word.  She  could  not  speak,  her  heart 
was  full,  and  her  brain  as  yet  felt  too  dizzy 
for  thought. 

There  is  a  terrible  kind  of  poverty ;  the 
poverty  of  the  millions,  who,  being  used  to  it 
from  their  birth,  luckily  do  not  see  it  in  all  its 
horrors ;  the  poverty  which  the  narrowest 
plank,  which  the  frailest  barrier  divides  from 
the  deep,  dark  gulf  of  want.  That  poverty 
Dora  had  never  known.  She  had  been  reared 
on  a  slender  income ;  but  she  ever  felt  safe  in 
her  little  cage,  and  had  no  conception  of  the 
life  led  by  such  as  have  to  shift  in  the  wilder- 
ness, and  are  not  sure,  when  they  go  to  bed 
at  night,  that  there  shall  be  bread  for  them 
on  the  morrow.  Talose  the  nine-tenths  of 
her  income  was  nothing,  whilst  the  tenth, 
which  was  strictly  sufficient,  remained  unto 
her.  But  to  lose  that,  to  have  to  face  a 
second  poverty,  grim  and  bare  as  the  first, 
and  far  more  pitiless  than  it  had  ever  been, 
filled  her  with  a  sort  of  horror — not  for  her 
own  sake  merely,  but  for  that  of  the  beings 
whom  she  loved. 

"  My  poor  mother !  My  poor  aunt !  "  she 
thought  when  she  could  think. 

She  was  standing  on  the  place,  with  the 
massive  gloom  of  Notre  Dame  hanging  over 
her.  She  entered  the  grand  old  church.  She 
wanted  to  be  calm  ere  she  faced  them  at 
home;  the  dim  light,  the  cool  atmosphere, 
the  faint  breath  of  incense,  the  vnstness,  yet 


54 


DORA. 


the  seclusion  of  this  Christian  home  of  souls, 
lulled  the  brief  storm  of  her  soul  to  rest. 
After  all,  she  could  work,  she  could  earn  ; 
she  was  young,  and  had  energy.  She  was 
thrown  on  Providence,  and  Providence  was 
thereby  bound  to  take  care  of  her,  and  those 
who  were  dear  to  her.  She  was  now  like  one 
of  those  birds  of  the  air  whose  fleetness  and 
freedom  she  had  so  often  envied.  There  was 
nothing  in  store  for  her ;  like  them  she  was  to 
live  in  boundless  trust,  neither  hoping  nor 
despairing. 

Dora's  heart  beat  as  she  came  to  this  con- 
clusion. She  was  a  brave  girl,  and  now  that 
the  first  shock  was  over,  she  could  meet  her 
new  lot,  and  look  it  in  the  face.  Besides, 
there  was  consolation  in  all  its  bitterness. 
Her  eyes  sought  the  gravestone  with  its  Ee- 
quiescat.  It  was  too  dai-k  to  read  it ;  but  she 
knew  it  was  there,  and  her  heart  was  full  as 
she  thoilght — 

"  Poor  Paul !  he  is  best  at  rest,  after  all ! 
Best  in  Glasnevin,  away  from  all  these  trou- 
bles, which  would  have  bowed  him  down  so 
heavily.  He  need  fear  no  care,  no  burden 
now.  Toil  is  over  for  him.  He  has  got  his 
wages.  That  is  the  meaning  of  the  old  Latin 
word  Eequiescat !  May  he  rest !  Is  life  such 
a  trouble  and  a  toil,  that  repose  must  needs 
be  man's  dearest  wish  to  the  dead  ?  And  now 
I  must  go  in  and  tell  them,  poor  things,  and 
see  tears,  and  hear  lamentations." 

She  left  the  church  and  went  home,  and 
never,  if  the  truth  must  be  confessed,  never 
had  she  felt  so  arrant  a  coward  as  when  she 
went  up  the  staircase.  She  heard  them  talk- 
ing within.  Mrs.  Courtenay's  tones  had  their 
usual  airy  cheerfulness,  and  even  Mrs.  Luan's 
husky  voice  told  Dora,  by  its  briskness,  that 
her  aunt  was  in  a  good  humor. 

"  I  dare  say  they  have  "had  a  letter  from 
John,"  thought  Dora,  with  a  sigh ;  and,  feel- 
ing like  a  culprit,  she  entered  the  room.  She 
did  not  delay  one  second — slie  could  not. 


"  I  have  had  such  strange  news,"  she  said? 
looking  at  them  wistfully  ;  "  not  good  news,  I 
confess,  but  I  hope  you  will  take  it  well,  and 
remember  that  I  am  young  and  can  work,  and 
that  Monsieur  Merand  means  to  go  on  employ- 
ing me." 

"  Xews  ! — what  news  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay,  amazed. 

"  Our  shares  in  the  Redmore  Mines  are 
worthless,"  answered  Dora,  in  a  low  voice; 
and  she  gave  them  the  few  particulars  of  the 
catastrophe  which  she  knew. 

Dora  had  been  prepared  for  her  mother's 
grief  and  her  aunt's  consternation,  but  she  had 
not  expected  to  find  them  both  incredulous. 
Yet  so  they  were.  Mrs.  Luan  said,  with  some 
excitement : 

"  It  is  not  true — the  mines  are  good  !  "  And 
she  took  up  and  put  down  her  patchwork  in 
evident  emotion. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  still  more  positive. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  good-humoredly,  "  if 
this  were  time,  we  should  know  it  ,as  well  as 
that  Doctor  Dick- — " 

"  Doctor  Richard,"  interrupted  Dora. 

"Doctor  Richard,"  placidly  resumed  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  "  can  scarcely  have  means  of  in- 
formation denied  to  us.  Besides,  I  dare  say 
he  was  entertaining  himself  at  your  expense, 
child." 

Dora  looked  very  earnestly  at  her  mother. 

"  If  you  had  seen  him  and  beard  him  speak, 
mamma,"  she  said,  "you  could  scarcely  con- 
nect the  idea  of  a  foolish  jest  with  that  man  ; 
still  less  would  you  think  it  likely  that  he 
should  or  could  be  mistaken  about  a  thing  he 
asserts  so  positively  as  this." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  slightly  disturbed. 

"  Why,  what  is  he  like  ?  "  she  asked. 

"A  gentleman — a  real  gentleman,  I  mean. 
Yes,  truly,  a  real  gentleman  ;  though  almost 
shabbily  dressed." 

"I  don't  believe  him— he  is  a  liar  !  "  excit- 
edly said  Mrs.  Luan. 


SAD  THOUGHTS. 


55 


"  He  looks  one  straight  in  the  face,  aunt." 

''  But,  my  dear,  you  know  nothing  about 
him,"  urged  her  mother. 

"I  have  seen  him,  mamma,  and  both  his 
appearance  and  manner  are  remarkable." 

"  Is  he  handsome  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Indeed,  he  is  dark  and  rather 
plain,  I  feel  pretty  sure  that  he  comes  from 
the  south." 

"  Then  he  is  an  Irishman  ! " 

"  Yes — at  least  I  think  so." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  again  put  in  Mrs. 
Luan  ;  "  Eichard  is  not  an  Irish  name — he  is 
a  liar ! " 

But  Dora  noticed  that  her  hand  shook  so 
that  she  could  not  thread  her  needle. 

"  I  am  not  sure  he  is  Irish,"  she  resumed, 
"  but  his  countenance  makes  me  think  he  is. 
Whatever  his  country  may  be,  his  face  is  that 
of  a  generous,  warm-hearted  man,  and,  I  will 
add,  of  an  upright  one." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  said  innocently  : 

"My  dear,  how  you  must  have  looked  at 
him  to  see  all  that  in  his  face  !  " 

"  I  did  indeed  look  at  him,"  replied  Dora, 
gravely.  "  "When  he  uttered  this  terrible 
news,  I  looked  at  him  as  I  seldom  look  at  peo- 
ple, mamma.  But  you  see  it  was  Destiny,  our 
Fate,  that  was  speaking.  He  seemed  sorry, 
very  sorry  for  me,  but  he  softened  and  miti- 
gated nothing.  I  do  not  think  he  could  do  so 
even  if  he  wished  it — the  truth  is  too  strong 
for  him." 

They  both  looked  at  her  with  some  sur- 
prise. She  was  pale,  but  grave  and  collected. 
The  blow  had  fallen  on  her,  but  it  had  not 
crushed  her ;  and  though  she  felt  it  still,  she 
was  already  rallying  from  its  effects.  They 
exchanged  alarmed  looks.  Was  it,  could  it 
be  true  ? 

"  But  if  the  money  is  lost,  what  shall  we 
do  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay,  raising  her 
voice,  and  clasping  her  hands  in  terror. 

"  Monsieur   Merand   asks  mc   for   another 


drawing,"  said  Dora;  "besides,  I  shall  try 
and  get  some  teaching." 

"  I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Den-ing  at  once ! " 
cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  much  agitated.  "As 
my  solicitor,  he  must  know  the  truth." 

"  It  is  too  late  for  the  post  to-day,  mamma. 
I  dare  say  we  shall  know  the  truth  to-mor- 
row." 

But  it  was  very  plain  that  concerning  that 
truth  Dora  herself  felt  no  doubt.  The  dreary 
certainty  had  entered  her  soul  in  Monsieur 
Merand's  shop,  and  could  leave  it  no  more. 

They  spent  a  melancholy  evening.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  took  out  her  cards,  and  tried  the 
favorite  patience  of  His  Majesty  Louis  Dix- 
huit,  but  she  changed  color  ere  she  had  gone 
half  through  it.  She  had  placed  an  omen 
upon  it,  and  whether  the  cards  would  not 
come  right,  or  whether — what  was  just  as 
likely — Mrs.  Courtenay's  disturbed  mind  would 
not  let  her  take  advantage  of  the  chances  of 
the  game,  it  was  plain  that  the  residt  would 
have  been  a  cruel  "  no  "  to  her  secret  hopes. 
So  she  would  not  trust  fate,  but  mixed  up  the 
cards  hurriedly,  and  put  them  away  with  a 
frightened  look  that  went  to  Dora's  heart.  It 
was  a  relief  to  her  when  she  retired  to  her 
room  for  the  night.  As  she  closed  her  win 
dow,  which  had  remained  open,  she  looked  up 
to  Nanette's,  where  a  light  was  btu-ning. 

"  My  poor  little  fairy,"  she  thought,  "  that 
light  of  yours  has  often  cheered  me,  and  done 
me  good,  for  poor  though  I  am,  it  showed  me 
I  was  not  powerless.  And  now,  must  I  bid 
you  be  careful  and  sparing  of  your  poor  ruSli- 
light,  or,  saddest  of  all,  give  up  my  little 
bounty  because  I  can  afford  it  no  longer ! " 

These  were  not  cheerful  thoughts,  and  Dora 
felt  depressed  as  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
bed,  and  looked  at  the  storj-  of  the  patient 
Griselidis  on  the'faded  curtains. 

"She  worked  for  her  living,  to  be  sure," 
thought  Dora,  as  she  examined  the  prim  figure 
standing  with  its  spindle  and  distaff  by  the 


56 


DORA. 


cottage  door,  "  but  did  she  ever  know  the 
cruel  doubt  and  fear  which  are  upon  me  now  ? 
She  had  always  wool  to  spin,  I  suppose,  that 
patient  Griselidis.  Was  there  a  time  when 
she  thought  of  sitting  empty-handed,  with 
nothing  to  do,  and  therefore  nothing  to  earn  ? 
God  help  us !  If  those  shares  are  really  lost, 
are  we  three  to  be  dependent  on  ray  drawings, 
and  on  Monsieur  Merand  ?  John  will  do 
something  for  his  mother,  poor  fellow ! — but 
what  can  he  do  ?  Oh !  how  weak  and  un- 
grateful I  was  all  this  time,  complaining  that 
I  led  a  dull  life,  forsooth,  and  not  appreciating 
the  inestimable  blessing  of  security  and  inde- 
pendence, mean  and  humble  though  both 
were !  I  fear  no  labor,  no  drudgery ;  but 
what  if  these  should  fail  me,  and  with  them 
honest  liveUhood  !  If  I  had  been  sinking  at 
sea,  or  shut  in  by  flames  from  all  help,  that 
Doctor  Eichard  could  scarcely  have  looked 
more  compassionate  than  he  did.  He  seemed 
struck  with  pity.  I  dare  say  my  face  told  him 
it  was  ruin  !  ruin  ! — cruel  ruin ! — irrevocable 
ruin  !    God  help  me  !  what  shall  we  do  ?  " 

Once  more  a  sort  of  despair  filled  her  heart, 
but  it  soon  passed  away.  Hope  and  a  natu- 
rally brave  spirit  chased  the  cowardly  feeling, 
and  bade  it  begone. 

"  I  will  be  brave — I  will  be  strong ! "  thought 
Dora,  proudly,  "  and,  -with  God's  help,  we  shall 
have  the  needful." 

She  went  to  bed  and  slept — slept  soundly, 
even.  But  Mrs.  Courtenay's  slumbers  were 
agitated  and  broken,  and  Mrs.  Luan's  eyes  did 
not  close  once  through  the  whole  of  that  long 
night. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  two  elder  ladies  were  anxiously  waiting 
for  post-time.  Dora  was  calm.  She  needed 
no  confirmation  to  her  knowledge  of  the 
worst.     "  We  must  bear  it,"  she  thought,  re- 


ducing into  practice  the  lessons  of  Epictetus. 
"  The  rest  matters  little." 

That  "  rest,"  which  she  thus  dismissed,  was 
much  to  the  two  elder  women.  They  denied 
its  existence,  yet  waited  for  its  coming  with 
fear  and  trembling.  What  if  those  Redmore 
Mines  should  indeed  prove  as  treacherous  as 
Dora's  four  hundred  a  year  !  We  all  know 
that  sorrows  come  not  sing^^.  These  dark 
sisters  are  in  a  league  against  man,  and  when 
one  has  done  with  him,  she  calls  another  to 
fill  her  vacant  place  by  the  stricken  hearth. 
Well  may  people  in  trouble  be  gloomy.  They 
know  that,  though  one  misfortune  is  gone,  the 
other  is  surely  coming.  But  it  is  hard  to  feel 
a  butt  for  Fate,  so  against  that  knowledge 
Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan  both  rebelled. 

"  I  am  sure  the  postman  his  gone  by," 
triumphantly  said  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

She  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window  for 
the  postman  during  the  last  hour.  She  now 
looked  again,  and  to  her  dismay  saw  him 
turning  the  corner  of  the  street.  At  once  she 
drew  in  her  frightened  face,  and  sat  down, 
pale  and  expectant.  Mrs.  Luan  looked  scared, 
and  turned  rather  yellow.  Dora  put  down 
her  sewing,  and  waited  patiently.  A  ring  was 
heard  at  the  door  below. 

"  It  is  the  baker,"  murmured  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. 

A  step  came  up  the  stairs — a  discreet  tap  at 
their  door  followed. 

"  Come  in,"  fiintly  said  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

The  door  opened,  and  Madame  Bertrand 
entered  the  room,  with  a  blue  foolscap  letter, 
an  Enghsh  letter,  in  her  hand.  She  came  in 
smiling  and  nodding.  English  letters  were 
always  welcome  to  her  lodgers. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  still  nodding.  "  *  How 
pleased  the  ladies  will  be,'  I  said  to  the  post- 
man ;  '  they  have  not  had  one  for  such  a  time.' 
'  Well,  then,'  he  replied,  '  they  will  not  mind 
paying  the  extra  postage;  it  is  written  on 
thick  paper,  and  overweight,  you  see.'     So  I 


ILLNESS  OF  MRS.  COURTENAY. 


57 


paid  him  the  twenty-four  sous,"  continued 
Madame  Bertrand. 

Dora  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  paid  the 
money,  and  tooli  the  letter.  Madame  Bertrand 
withdrew,  unconscious  of  the  desolation  she 
had  left  behind  her. 

"  Read  it,  Dora — I  cannot,"  said  poor  Mrs. 
Courten'ay. 

Dora  obeyed  and  read.  They  heard  her  in 
death-like  silence.  Their  little  all  was  gone, 
their  little  hoard  had  been  swallowed  in  the 
great  wreck  ;  they  were  left,  two  white-haired 
helpless  women,  dependent  on  a  girl.  Dora's 
tears  flowed  at  the  sight  of  their  silent  grief. 

"  Dear  mamma,  dear  aunt,"  she  said,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other,  "  I  am  young,  and 
I  can  work.  It  is  Providence  that  sent  me  to 
Monsieur  Merand's  shop.  And  I  like  draw- 
ing— I  did  it  for  pleasure  as  much  as  for 
money ;  if  he  will  but  continue  and  take  my 
sketches,  we  can  live  on  my  earnings.  Be- 
sides, can  I  not  teach  English  or  music,  or  do 
a  hundred  things?  As  to  that,  can  I  not 
sew  ?  " 

But  age  has  not  the  elasticity  of  youth. 
Ruin  was  before  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  her 
sister-in-law,  and  they  could  see  nothing  else. 
Dora's  voice  fell  on  their  ear  without  a  note 
of  hope  or  comfort  in  it.  It  sounded  idle,  far 
away  and  dull,  and  left  the  bitter  truth  in  all 
its  bitterness.  In  vain  she  tried  to  console 
them— she  failed,  and  each  rejected  her  well- 
meant  efforts  after  her  own  fashion.  Mrs. 
Luan  by  a  silent,  moody  motion  of  her  hand, 
and  heavy,  averted  looks ;  Mrs.  Courtenay  by 
pitiful  lamentations,  ending  in  sobs  and  tears. 

There  is  something  very  grievous  in  the  de- 
spair of  age.  ChDdhood  and  youth  have  their 
passionate  griefs,  but  we  know  that  the  Siren 
Hope  keeps  many  a  sweet  lure  in  store  for 
either.  The  old  she  deserts  without  pity ;  let 
them  suffer,  their  troubles  at  the  best  will  be 
brief,  and  there  is  a  cure  for  all  sorrows  be- 
neath the  green   sod.      Rest    is  there,   and 


silence,  and  with  both  a  balm  to  every  earthly 
grief;  is  it  worth  while  for  that  bright,  fair- 
haired  Hope  to  take  thought  of  them?  To 
Dora  she  was  prodigal  of  promises  in  this  sad 
hour.  A  national  gallery  would  scarcely  have 
held  all  the  drawings  she  held  up  to  her  view. 
Bags  full  of  silver  five-franc  pieces,  rouleaux 
of  gold,  blue  bank-notes,  this  gay  young  god- 
dess held  in  either  of  her  white  hands.  Dora's 
courage  was  but  the  fast  belief  in  future  good 
rising  out  of  this  present  woe.  Of  work  and 
money  she  felt  sure ;  but  she  vainly  tried  to 
impart  her  certainty  to  her  mother. 

"No,  no,"  despondently  said  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay ;  "  I  dare  say  Monsieur  Merand  will  be  like 
the  Redmore  Mines,  and  we  shall  all  starve  ! — 
all  starve  ! "  she  added,  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro  in  her  chair, 

Dora  thought  at  first  that  as  her  mother's 
grief  was  loud,  it  would  be  soon  over — sooner, 
perhaps,  than  that  of  Mrs.  Luan,  who  sat  silent 
and  moody,  like  a  yellow  statue  of  despair ; 
but  it  was  not  so.  Mrs.  Luan  rallied  a  little, 
and  grew  less  torpid  as  the  day  passed ;  whilst 
Mrs.  Courtenay  became  more  and  more  ex- 
citable. She  had  borne,  with  great  resigna- 
tion, with  a  sort'  of  cheerfulness,  indeed,  the 
loss  of  Dora's  four  hundred  a  year,  but  noth- 
ing a  year  threw  her  into  a  sort  of  distraction 
over  which  Dora  found  that  she  was  power- 
less. Mrs.  Courtenay  cried  the  whole  day,  re- 
fused to  eat,  and  when  she  at  lengtti  went  to 
bed,  it  was  not  to  sleep,  but  to  fret  and  moan, 
Dora  became  uneasy,  and  that  uneasiness  rose 
to  alarm  when,  on  entering  her  mother's  room 
to  see  if  she  was  sleeping,  she  found  Mrs. 
Courtenay  sitting  up  in  her  bed,  talking  aloud 
and  at  random. 

It  had  not  seemed  to  Dora  before  this  that 
grief  in  one  of  her  mother's  excitable  tempera- 
ment might  be  dangerous.  But  now  the  con- 
viction that  it  could  be  so  rushed  to  her  mind 
with  terrible  force,  and  conquered  her  equa- 
nimitv. 


58 


DOEA. 


"  Aunt ! "  she  cried,  going  back  to  Mrs. 
Luan  in  their  little  sitting-room,  "stay  with 
mamma  ;  I  must  go  for  a  doctor." 

She  hastily  put  on  her  bonnet  and  ran  down- 
stairs to  Madame  Bertrand.  She  found  her  in 
her  chair  snoring  comfortably,  whilst  the  gray 
Angola  cat,  gathered  up  in  a  demure  attitude 
on  the  table  by  her  mistress,  was  purring  in 
unison.  The  lamp  burned  unused,  for  though 
Madame  Bertrand's  spectacles  were  on  her 
nose,  and  a  half-mended  stocking  was  on  her 
left  hand,  the  good  lady  was,  as  we  said,  fast 
asleep.  It  was  but  a  little  Dutch  picture  of 
domestic  comfort ;  yet  that  homely  woman  in 
the  homely  room,  with  the  brown  old  furniture 
and  the  ancient  clock  ticking  behind  the  door, 
gave  Dora  a  brief,  sharp  pang.  Oh  !  to  be  so 
once  more,  with  health  and  humble  comfort, 
and  the  sweetest  of  human  blessings,  a  bless- 
ing, indeed,  which  is  more  of  Heaven  than  of 
earth — dear,  happy  peace  ! 

Madame  Bertrand  was  not  very  fiist  asleep — 
only  dozing,  as  she  said  when  on  awakening 
she  saw  Dora  standing  before  her;  and  she 
good-liumoredly  asked  to  know  her  young 
lodger's  pleasure. 

"  My  mother  is  ill,"  replied  Dora,  "  and  I 
want  a  doctor." 

Madame  Bertrand  stared. 

"Ill !  "  she  exclaimed,  amazed.  "Then  we 
must  have  the  English  doctor — Dr.  Eichard." 

Dora  could  not  help  giving  a  little  start.  She 
did  not  want  Doctor  Richard  ;  she  herself  could 
not  have  said  why. 

"  Is  he  a  good  doctor  ?  "  she  asked  doubt- 
fully— "  a  very  good  one,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Good  !  "  screamed  Madame  Bertrand  ; 
"  why,  did  he  not  save  Madame  Bernard's 
child  that  was  black  in  the  face  !  And  when 
poor  Monsieur  Legrand  had  that  brain  fever, 
did  lie  not  get  him  through — only  is  he  within 
now?  He  would  be  the  greatest  doctor  in 
Eouen  if  he  were  not  always  nobody  knows 
where." 


"  Then  let  us  go  for  some  one  else,"  hur- 
riedly said  Dora ;  "  I  must  lose  no  time." 

"  I  shall  go  with  you  to  Doctor  Eichard's," 
Madame  Bertrand  good-naturedly  proposed ; 
"  and  if  he  is  not  within,  we  can  only  go  to 
Doctor  Merson — but  I  have  no  great  faith  in 
li'un,''''  she  added,  with  an  ominous  shake  of  the 
head. 

They  went  out  together.  The  night  was  fine, 
but  cool.  The  chill  air  did  Dora  good,  and 
helped  to  calm  her. 

"  I  dare  say  it  is  only  a  little  natural  excite- 
ment," she  thought,  already  rallying  from  her 
fears  ;  "  still,  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  advice. 
I  hope  that  Doctor  Eichard  is  a  good  doctor  ?  " 

And  she  asked  if  he  lived  far  away. 

"  This  is  the  house,"  answered  Madame  Ber- 
trand, stopping  before  a  low  and  very  old  man- 
sion. Dora  knew  that  house  well.  It  stood 
next  to  that  in  which  Nanette  lived.  She 
passed  it  daily  on  her  way  to  the  Musee.  She 
knew  that  gray  fa9ade,  that  low  arched  door, 
those  grated  windows  on  the  ground-floor. 
Once  she  had  seen  the  door  open,  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  green  court  with  mildewed  walls, 
an  old  shattered  fountain,  and  a  heap  of  sculp- 
tured rubbish ;  but  Doctor  Eichard,  or  indeed 
any  one,  she  had  never  seen  about  the 
place. 

"  He  is  within,"  said  Madame  Bertrand  ;  she 
looked  up  at  the  first-floor  windows  as  she 
spoke — they  were  curtainless.  Dora  saw  a 
light  passing  from  room  to  room,  but  she  could 
not  see  who  carried  it. 

"  Does  Doctor  Eichard  live  here  ?  "  she  in- 
quired, as  her  companion  rang  the  bell,  which 
gave  a  loud  dismal  peal  in  the  empty  rooms 
within. 

"Not  always;  but,  poor  gentleman!  he* 
spends  all  his  money  in  buying  old  things,  and 
he  stows  them  away  here,  you  see." 

The  light  vanished  from  the  windows  above, 
a  step  was  heard  coming  down  the  staircase, 
and  presently  the  door  opened,  and  Dora  saw 


THE  DOCTOR'S  VISIT. 


59 


Doctor  Richard  with  his  hat  on  and  a  light  in 
his  hand.  She  saw  him,  but  he  did  not  see 
her.  He  only  saw  Madame  Bertrand,  behind 
whom  she  stood,  in  the  darliness  of  the  street. 

"  Well !  "  he  said,  with  good-humored  as- 
perity. "Who  is  ill?  Who  is  dying  now, 
just  to  vex  me  and  keep  me  in  Rouen  to- 
night?" 

'*  No  one  is  dying,  I  hope.  Monsieur  Rich- 
ai-d,"  replied  Madame  Bertrand,  curtsying ; 
"  but  Mademoiselle's  mamma  is  very  poorly, 
so  we  came  for  you." 

Doctor  Richard  moved  hi?  light  till  it  fell  on 
Dora's  face;  his  look  showed  that  he  recog- 
nized her,  but  he  betrayed  no  other  token  of 
previous  acquaintance.  He  extinguished  the 
candle,  put  it  away  on  the  last  step  of  the 
staircase,  then  walked  out,  locking  the  door 
behind  him.  It  was  plain  he  hved  alone  in 
that  dreary  old  mansion. 

"  How  strange  and  sharp  he  looks,"  thought 
Dora  to  whom  that  night  aspect  of  Doctor 
Richard's  dark  face  gave  a  very  different  im- 
pression from  that  which  she  had  received  in 
Monsieur  Merand's  shop!  "I  hope  he  is  a 
good  doctor.     I  fear  he  is  a  wilful  one." 

At  first  Doctor  Richard  walked  up  the  street 
before  them.  Then  suddenly  slackening  his 
pace,  he  stayed  by  Dora's  side,  and  began 
questioning  her.  How  long  had  her  mother 
been  ill,  and  what  were  the  symptoms  ? 

"  She  got  bad  news  this  morning,"  replied 
Dora;  "news  which  agitated  her,  and  she  is 
slightly  delirious  now.  It  is  this  that  frightens 
me." 

"  There  is  probably  no  cause  for  alarm,"  he 
composedly  rephed,  "though  there  may  be 
some  for  care." 

He  spoke  no  more,  and  when  they  reached 
the  house  he  followed  her  up-stairs  to  her 
mother's  room,  without  uttermg  a  word. 

"  Mamma,  I  have  brought  Doctor  Richard  to 
see  you,"  said  Dora,  going  up  to  her  mother. 

"  My  dear,  we  cannot  afford  doctors  now," 


answered  Mrs.  Courteuay,  excitedly.  "  They 
are  expensive,  you  know.  Besides,  that  is  not 
Doctor  Richard." 

"  Yes,  it  is  !  "  he  good-humoredly  replied  in 
Enghsh,  and  at  the  same  time  sitting  down  by 
her,  and  taking  her  hand  to  feel  her  pulse,  "  I 
am  not  merely  Doctor  Richard,  but  your  close 
neighbor,  don't  you  know  that  ?  " 

The  sick  lady  gave  him  a  puzzled  look,  and 
then,  with  a  wearied  sigh,  she  let  her  upraised 
head  sink  back  on  her  pillow.  Doctor  Richard 
looked  at  her  very  attentively ;  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  scanned 
her  features  with  the  closest  scrutiny,  seeming 
in  no  hurry  either  to  speak  or  to  move.  Mrs. 
Luan  stared  at  him  amazed,  whilst  Dora 
watched  him  with  breathless  suspense.  At 
length  he  rose  and  looked  for  his  hat. 

"  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done,  sir  ?  "  asked 
Dora. 

"Not  yet,"  he  replied,  "but  you  may  as 
well  sit  up  with  her.  I  shall  call  again  in  an 
hour  or  so,  and  then  I  shall  know  better  how 
to  act." 

Dora  followed  him  out  of  the  room. 

"  Thei'e  is  no  cause  for  alarm,  sir,  is  there  ?  " 
she  asked,  detaining  him  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of;  but,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  matter  with 
this  lady,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  prescribe  until 
I  have  such  knowledge.  I  shall  call  round  in 
an  hour  or  so." 

"  But  my  mother  cannof  be  very  ill ! "  urged 
Dora.     "  She  was  so  well  this  morning." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  is  very  ill,"  he  answered, 
quietly;  "but  it  is  to  feel  sure  of  it  that  I 
shall  come  again." 

He  left  her,  and  Dora,  much  relieved,  re- 
turned to  her  mother's  room.  But  the  relief 
was  only  momentary.  As  she  sat  and  listened 
to  Mrs.  Courtenay's  gentle  wanderings,  and 
looked  at  her  flushed  face,  a  subtle  but  sicken- 
ing fear  crept  to  her  heart.     What  if  the  blow 


60 


BORA. 


had  been  too  severe  ?  Wliat  if  the  terror  of 
poverty  had  irremediably  shaken  a  mind  of 
no  great  strength  ?  For  it  was  a  cruel — a 
very  cruel  blow.  She  need  only  look  at  Mrs. 
Luan's  dull,  heavy  face,  at  her  vacant  eyes, 
and  hands  idly  clasped  on  her  lap,  and  see 
how  that  blow  had  told  on  her.  She  tried  to 
rouse  her  a  little. 

"  Do  not  look  so,  aunt,"  she  said,  going  to 
her  chair  and  bending  over  it,  "  take  your 
patchwork  and  cheer  up.  Mamma  will  get 
well,  and  John  will  help  us,  and  I  shall  draw 
for  Mons.  Merand,  and  all  will  be  right  again." 

"  We  shall  give  a  party  next  week,"  here 
said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  "and  your  aunt  shall 
wear  a  yellow  dress,  Dora." 

Mrs.  Luan  smiled  grimly. 

"  She  thinks  me  foolish ! "  she  said,  "  does 
she  ?    Eh  ?  " 

She  was  evidently  triumphing  in  her  superior 
wisdom.  Dora's  eyes  grew  dim  as  she  looked 
toward  the  bed. 

"  Some  people  look  wise  and  are  silly,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Luan,  with  a  nod.  "  Oh  !  dear, 
how  hot  my  head  is  ! " 

She  took  off  her  cap  as  she  spoke,  and  flung 
it  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

There  was  no  comfort  to  receive  there,  no 
comfort,  either,  to  administer.  Dora  returned 
to  her  mother's  bedside. 

"  It  is  a  party,  a  beautiful  party,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Courtenay :  "  only  where  is  Paul  ?  You 
must  dance  with  Paul,  Dora.  Pity  you  are 
brother  and  sister — I  should  have  liked  you 
to  marry  Paul.  So  accomplished — such  a  gen- 
tleman ! " 

"  Do  listen  to  her ! "  scornfully  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  still  seeming  to  triumph  in  her  superi- 
ority. Then  she  gave  a  start,  and  added  ab- 
ruptly, "Tliat's  the  death-watch  ! " 

Dora  felt  almost  angry. 

"  That  is  Madame  Bertrand's  great  clock 
ticking,"  she  replied,  warmly.  "  I  wonder  at 
you,  aunt ! " 


Mrs.  Luan  stared  at  her  without  replying. 
Then  she  rose,  picked  up  her  cap,  put  it  on, 
after  shaking  it,  and,  to  Dora's  relief,  went  to 
her  own  room.  She  remained  alone  with  her 
mother,  looking  at  her,  listening  to  her  in 
troubled  silence.  The  evening,  the  house,  the 
street,  all  seemed  pretematurally  still,  but  Ma- 
dame Bertrand's  clock  was  awfully  distinct. 

"  How  cruel  of  aimt  to  say  that ! "  thought 
Dora ;  "  but,  poor  thing,  she  knows  no  better. 
Why  do  I  listen  to  that  foolish  old  clock  ?  It 
is  a  hundred  years  old,  at  least,  and  is  in  its 
•dotage — vihj,  then,  do  I  mind  it  ?  " 

Why  is  superstition,  latent  in  the  human 
heart,  ready  to  start  forth  at  the  first  call  of 
sorrow  ?  Oh !  what  a  rehef  it  was  when  a 
ring  was  heard  below,  when  the  street-door 
opened,  and  Doctor  Richard's  step  came  up 
the  staircase !  A  relief,  yet  Dora's  heart  beat 
so  with  sudden  fear,  that  she  could  scarcely 
rise  to  receive  him  when  he  entered  the  room. 
Without  speaking  he  went  and  took  the  chair 
she  had  left  vacant.  He  sat  down  again,  and 
he  looked  at  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  the  closest 
attention.  Dora  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed, 
looking  at  him  with  an  intent  gaze.  Tears 
afterward  sbe  could  have  drawn  his  face  from 
memory  as  she  saw  it  on  this  evening,  so  keen, 
so  watchful  was  the  look  sbe  bent  upon  him 
then.  Doctor  Richard  was  not  very  young, 
and  he  was  not  at  all  handsome.  He  was  still 
in  the  prime  and  strength  of  life,  but  he  was 
plain  and  dark.  He  had  a  broad,  massive  fore- 
head, strongly-marked  eyebrows,  and  fine  but 
very  piercing  eyes.  Some  sternness  tliere  was 
in  the  upper  portion  of  bis  face,  but  a  hand- 
some, genial  mouth  redeemed  it  from  any- 
thing like  coldness.  With  all  this  his  was  a 
perplexing  countenance,  perhaps,  because  it 
was  one  of  many  contrasts,  and,  therefore,  not 
easily  read.  Intellect  it  expressed  and  power 
tempered  by  good-humor ;  but  with  these  at- 
tractive^gifts  there  were  others  which  qualified 
them.     Doctor  Richard  looked  like  a  man  of 


HIS  FRIENDSHIP. 


61 


strong  passions,  and  especially  like  one  with 
whom  anger  is  both  quick  and  vehement.  He 
might  be,  and  probably  he  was,  warm-hearted, 
but  he  was  certainly  very  warm-tempered. 

Dora  looked,  not  to  observe  all  this,  though 
many  a  time  later  she  remembered  and  con- 
strued every  one  of  these  signs,  but  to  read 
in  that  dark,  expressive  face  the  fate  of  her 
sick  mother.  Doctor  Richard  remained  long 
silent.    When  he  spoke  at  length,  it  was  to  say, 

"  I  am  just  as  much  puzzled  as  before." 

He  spoke  with  a  candor  rare  in  medical 
men.  They  cannot  afford  it.  Their  patients 
expect  them  to  be  endowed  with  Godlike  in- 
fallibility, and  woe  be  to  them  if  by  word'or 
look  they  disappoint  the  preposterous  expec- 
tation !  But  Doctor  Richard  did  not  seem  to 
care  much  for  the  reputation  of  his  profes- 
sional skill.  For  without  giving  Dora  time  to 
reply,  he  continued,  "  I  cannot  tell  yet.  "Will 
you  let  me  sit  an  hour  here  and  wait  ?  " 

"  Certainly ;  but  it  is  robbing  you  of  a 
night's  sleep,  sir." 

"  Not  it.     I  can  read,  you  know." 

He  tools  a  book  out  of  his  pocket  as  he 
spoke,  and  was  soon  intent  upon  its  contents. 
The  door  of  the  inner  room  opened  ere  long, 
and  Mrs.  Luan  came  forth  ;  but  Doctor  Richard 
only 'turned  a  page  without  looking  round. 
Mrs.  Luan  sat  down  not  far  from  him,  and 
still  Doctor  Richard  was,  or  seemed  to  be,  un- 
conscious of  her  presence.  Thus  all  three  sat 
in  painful  silence,  whilst  Mrs.  Courtenay  ut- 
tered some  flighty  remark  every  now  and 
then. 

"Dora,"  she  once  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "is 
everything  safe  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mamma,  quite  safe." 
"I  mean  the  money.     Because,  you  see, 
Mr.  Brown  is  in  the  room." 

She  looked  significantly  at  Doctor  Richard, 
who  raised  his  eyes,  gave  a  little  start  of  sur- 
prise, and  even  colored  sligh  tly.  Dora  blushed 
and  explained  hastily : 


"  Mr.  Brown  was  our  banker,  and  we  unfor- 
tunately lost  some  money  through  him,"  she 
said  ;  "  so —  " 

"  Mrs.  Courtenay  connects  me  with  him," 
said  Doctor  Richard,  without  letting  her  go  on ; 
"  pray  do  not  apologize." 

"  Mr.  Brown  was  a  rogue !  "  remarked  Mrs. 
Luan,  staring  at  Doctor  Richard,  who  returned 
the  look  with  interest. 

Dora,  much  perplexed  and  confused,  said 
nothing.  Doctor  Richard  preserved  the  great- 
est composure,  and  resumed  his  reading.  A 
book  lay  on  the  table — Dora  took  it  up.  It 
was  "  Epictetus."  Never,  alas  !  had  her  mind 
felt  less  inclined  to  receive  the  stoic's  teaching 
than  it  felt  then.  How  hard,  how  cold,  how 
heartless  it  all  seemed !  She  compelled  her- 
self to  read,  indeed,  but  half  the  time  she  found 
no  meaning  in  the  words  before  her.  Ever  and 
anon  her  eyes  wandered  from  the  page  to  Doc- 
tor Richard,  and  every  time  they  did  so,  they 
found,  on  their  way,  the  face  of  Mrs.  Luan, 
sitting  in  the  gloomy  part  of  the  room,  and 
staring  at  the  stranger  with  that  fixed  stare 
which  one  sometimes  sees  in  animals  when  a 
guest  toward  whom  they  feel  but  half  friendly 
is  present.  That  look,  of  which  Doctor  Rich- 
ard was,  or  chose  to  seem,  unconscious,  added 
to  Dora's  nervousness.  She  could  read  no 
more — her  anxiety  was  too  great ;  and  still 
time  passed,  and  still  Doctor  Richard  read  on, 
and  showed  no  inclination  to  go. 

Suddenly  a  church  clock  struck  the  hour — 
two  of  the  morning  ;  then  a  few  minutes  later 
another  clock  took  up  the  tale,  and  another 
again — for  a  whole  quarter  of  an  hour  it  was 
two.  Dora  sat  no  longer  reading,  but,  with 
her  cheek  resting  on  the  palm  of  her  hand,  and 
her  elbow  on  the  table.  "  Will  he  never  go  ? 
— will  he  never  speak  ?  "  she  though! ;  and  she 
looked  toward  him  almost  entreatingly. 

This  time  Doctor  Richard  saw  her.  He  had 
half  closed  his  book  on  his  knee,  and  bending 
a  little  forward,  he  was  looking  at  her  keenly 


62 


DORA. 


and  intently.  If  she  had  b'een  a  picture  or  a 
statue,  his  gaze  could  not  have  been  a  more 
fixed  one  than  it' was. 

"How  is  she? — "What  is  it?"  -whispered 
Dora,  rising,  arid  going  up  to  him,  for  such  a 
look,  she  thought,  could  have  but  oue  mean- 
ing. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  had  fallen  into  a  gentle 
sleep.  Dora's  expressive  eves  asked  :  "  Is  this 
good  ? "  And  Doctor  Eichard  nodded  and 
smiled,  put  his  book  iu  his  pocket,  and  rose  to 
go.  He  was  silent,  and  Dora,  taking  the  hint, 
let  him  out  without  speaking. 

"Well,  sir?"  she  said  eagerly,  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed  upon  them,  and  they  stood 
on  the  landing. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  know  all  about  it 

now,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  sleeps    without  an 

opiate,  which   I  did  not  dare  to  give  her.     I 

believe  she  will  be  well  in  a  few  days ;  but  if, 

* 
as  I  fear,  mental  uneasiness  be  at  the  root  of 

her  disease,  jiray  do  all  you  can  to  compose 

her." 

Poor  Dora!  this  threw  her  hack  on  her  al- 
most forgotten  trouble.  Doctor  Richard  saw 
her  eyes  grow  dim,  and  her  hps  quiver.  But 
he  could  do  or  say  nothing,  and  he  merely  bade 
her  a  good-night. 

"  Good-night,  sir,"  said  Dora,  following  him 
down  ;  "  I  thank  you  much,  very  much — will 
you  come  again  ?  " 

He  seemed  surprised  at  the  suggestion. 

"  Of  course  I  shall,"  he  said — "  there,  do  not 
come  down  any  further — I  can  let  myself  out ; 
the  night  air  is  keen." 

But  Dora  would  follow  him  to  the  street 
door,  and  even  hold  the  light  for  him  down 
the  street.  He  walked  away  a  few  steps,  then 
came  back. 

"  You  fleed  not  sit  up  with  Mrs.  Courtenay," 
he  said.  "  I  feel  quite  sure  of  her  now.  Good- 
night." 

He  held  out  his  liand.  Dora  gavehim^ers, 
and  thanked  him  again.    He  pressed  her  hand. 


and  that  with  so  cordial,  so  friendly  a  grasp, 
that  as  he  walked  away  and  Dora  closed  the 
door  upon  him,  she  thought,  with  some  emo- 
tion, "  I  am  sure  Doctor  Richard  is  a  friend." 
And  so  he  was — a  fiist,  true  friend  to  her. 
Such  a  friend  as  life  grants  to  few. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

When  Dora  softly  entered  her  mother's 
room  the  next  morning,  she  found  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay still  sleeping.  Her  head  lay  on  her  pil- 
low, her  hands  were  clasped,  and  in  the  sub- 
dued light,  which  stole  in  horizontal  rays 
through  the  closed  shutters,  she  looked  so 
calm,  so  peaceful,  that  Dora's  last  apprehen- 
sions vanished  as  by  enchantment.  Her  face 
was  radiant  when  she  went  forth  into  the  lit- 
tle sitting-i'oom,  and  there  found  Madame  Ber- 
trand,  who  brought  the  intimation  that  Mon- 
sieur Merand  was  below. 

"Ask  him  to  come  up,"  whispered  Dora, 
"  but  tell  him  my  mother  has  been  ill  and  that 
we  must  speak  low."  t 

Presently  Monsieur  Merand  came  up  on 
tip-toe,  and  w  ith  many  whispered  apologies  for 
troubling  mademoiselle,  he  told  his  errand. 

In  her  distress  at  the  unexpected  catas- 
trophe of  the  Eedmore  Mines,  Dora  had  left 
her  portfolio  behind  her.  This  Monsieur  Me- 
rand now  brought  back,  but  not  without  hav- 
ing, as  he  confessed,  first  inspected  its  con- 
tents. His  own  drawing  he  had  found,  also 
Dora's  copy  of  Keyser's  music-lesson,  and 
concerning  this  he  now  ventured  to  speak. 
With  an  air  of  diffident  yet  injured  candor,  he 
asked  to  know  if  Dora  had  been  working  for 
any  other  dealer.  Her  freedom  to  do  so  Mon- 
sieur Merand  never  questioned,  but  then  he 
could  assure  her  that  she  would  find  him  as 
liberal  as  any  other  member  of  the  trade. 

"Now,  with  regard  to  that  drawing  of 
Keyser's,"  he  added,  in  his  most  insmuating 


M.   MERAND  AND  THE   DRAWING. 


C3 


tone,  "  I  should  like  it  much  if  it  were  not 
secured." 

"It  is  not,"  honestly  replied  Dora,  and  in 
the  fulness  of  her  heart  she  was  going  to  add 
that  Monsieur  Merand  was  welcome  to  it,  when 
the  door  opened  and  Doctor  Richard  entered 
the  room.  Dora  forgot  the  dealer  and  the 
drawing  in  a  moment. 

"  Mamma  is  sleeping,"  she  said,  eagerly — 
"  is  that  a  good  sign,  Doctor  Richard  ?  " 

"  A  very  good  sign,"  he  answered,  smiling. 

"I  beUeve,  however,  she  will  soon  waken." 

"  Then  I  shall  wait  till  she  does." 

He  took  a  chair,  and  put  down  his  hat.  He 
evidently  did  not  think  that  Dora's  business 
with  Monsieur  Merand  could  be  of  a  private 
nature.  The  portfolio  lay  open  on  the  table, 
the  drawing  was  disi:)layed  to  Doctor  Richard's 
view,  and  lie  unceremoniously  bent  forward  to 
see  it  better. 

"  What  a  fine  drawing ! "  he  exclaimed — "  is 
that  yours.  Miss  Courtenay  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  she  replied,  blushing  a  little,  "  and 
Monsieur  Merand  wants  to  purchase  it  from 
me." 

But  either  Doctor  Richard's  entrance,  or  his 
praise  of  Dora's  performance,  had  changed 
Monsieur  Merand's  mood,  for  he  looked  super- 
ciliously at  the  drawing,  put  forth  his  nether 
lip,  fftd  said,  curtly : 

"  Yes,  I  want  a  drawing  that  size  ;  but  this 
is  not  one  of  your  best  efforts,  mademoi- 
selle?" 

Dora  changed  color.  Was  Monsieur  Me- 
rand going  to  turn  critical  in  the  hour  when 
she  most  needed  his  admiration  ? 

"  Nonsense,  Monsieur  Merand ! "  put  in  Doc- 
tor Richai'd — "  that  is  a  first-rate  drawing." 

"Not  in  my  opinion,''  dryly  said  Monsieur 
Merand,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  pockets, 
and  looking  rather  defiantly  at  his  customer. 

"  I  cannot  do  better,"  said  Dora,  with  a 
wistful  look. 

Monsieur  Merand   looked    at    the   drawing 


again,  and  grumbled  something  about  being  in 
a  hurry,  and  not  being  able  to  help  himself. 
Dora  felt  mortified,  but  necessity  is  a  hard 
mistress,  and  this  was  not  the  time  to  revolt 
against  Monsieur  Merand's  criticism,  however 
harsh  and  unpleasant  it  might  be. 

"  And  what  do  you  expect  for  this  ?  "  he 
asked,  after  a  while. 

Dora  hesitated. 

"  Say  two  hundred  francs,"  suggested  Mon- 
sieur Merand,  cavalierly. 

Before  Dora  could  answer,  Doctor  Richard 
interfered. 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  four  hundred,"  he 
said,  very  coolly. 

"  Doctor  Richard,"  hotly  answered  Monsieur 
Merand,  "  do  I  meddle  in  your  business  ? — do 
I  go  and  prescribe  for  your  patients  ?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  would  my  patients  follow 
your  presci'iptions  ?  "  was  the  amused  reply. 

"Well,  then,  I  decline  to  submit  to  your 
interference,  Doctor  Richard !  I  will  give 
mademoiselle  two  hundred  francs — that  and 
no  more." 

"  And  I  will  engage,  by  sending  that  draw- 
ing to  a  house  I  know  in  London,  to  get  her, 
if  not  four  hundred  francs  for  it,  at  least  three 
hundred  and  fifty." 

Doctor  Richard  spoke  confidently ;  Monsieur 
Merand  looked  blank. 

"  I  cannot  help  myself,"  he  said  at  length, 
and  speaking  very  sullenly.  "  I  will  give 
mademoiselle  the  three  hundred  and  fifty 
franca.  I  do  not  gain  a  franc  by  the  transac- 
tion— not  one,"  he  added,  witli  an  injured 
look. 

Doctor  Richard  chuckled,  and  seemed  exces- 
sively amused. 

"  I  declare  it  is  better  than  a  play  to  Iiear 
you  J "  he  said,  good-hnmoredly.  "  Only  to 
think  of  your  wanting  to  pass  off  these  tricks 
upon  me,  Monsieur  Merand  !  " 

Monsieur  Merand  looked  as  if  he  did  not 
know  whether  to  be  entertained  or  angry  at 


64 


DORA. 


the  cool  tone  in  which  his  customer  addressed 
him.  He  took  the  wisest  course,  however,  and, 
not  deigning  to  answer  him,  he  turned  to 
Dora>  to  whom  he  said,  very  ci\illy — "  When 
may  I  have  the  drawing,  mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  give  it  a  few  last  touches  ; 
and  if  my  mother  is  so  far  well  that  I  can 
leave  her,  I  shall  work  at  it  tp-day,  Monsieur 
Merand." 

"  Then  I  hope  she  will  be  well,"  he  said, 
a  little  crossly.  "  Good-mornin«c ;  "  and  with 
the  look  of  a  conquered  man,  he  left  the 
room. 

Dora  turned  toward  Doctor  Richard.  Her 
beaming  face  expressed  her  thanks  before  they 
were  spoken.  He  gave  her  no  time  to  utter  a 
word. 

"  Do  not,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  You  would 
not  have  had  me  stand  by  and  see  you  robbed  ? 
Why,  your  drawing  is  worth  more  than  the 
sum  I  have  stated." 

"  I  cannot  understand  it,"  replied  Dora, 
looking  perplexed ;  "  I  never  knew  I  was  so 
clever ;  but  however  that  may  be,  I  do  cor- 
dially thank  you.  "Money  is  invaluable  to  me 
just  now,.  Doctor  Richard." 

He  nodded  gravely,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  Ah  !  yes,  I  know — the  Redmore  Mines  ; " 
and  as  he  heard  Mrs.  Courtenay  talking  to 
Mrs.  Luan  within,  he  asked  if  he  could  not 
see  her.  Dora  went  in  before  him,  then  came 
back  and  signed  him  to  follow  her, 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  sitting  up  in  her  bed. 
She  looked  calm  and  collected ;  and,  iadeed, 
was  so  far  recovered,  that  Doctor  Richard's 
presence  startled  and  surprised  her.  At 
once  she  looked  to  her  daughter  for  explana- 
tion. 

"You  have  been  quite  unwell,  mamma," 
said  Dora,  smiling,  "  and  Doctor  Richard,  who 
is  our  neighbor,  called  in  to  see  you.  And 
what  do  you  think  mamma,  Monsieur  Merand 
came  a  quarter  of  an  .hour  ago  to  ask  me  for  a 
drawing  from  one  of  the  pictures  in 'the  Gal- 


lery. And  he  is  in  a  desperate  hurry  for  it. 
So  do  make  haste  and  get  well." 

"  And  the  Redmore  Mines,"  said  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, plaintively ;  "  I  did  not  dream  that,  did 
I,  Dora?" 

"  No,  indeed,  you  did  not.  But  the  Red- 
more  Mines  are  here  now,"  she  added,  gayly, 
showing  her  little  right  hand.  "  You  must 
know,  mamma,  that  I  am  quite  clever.  Doc- 
tor Richard  has  been  looking  at  my  last  draw- 
ing whilst  you  slept,  and  he  thinks  that  Mon- 
sieur Merand  scarcely  pays  me  enough.  He 
advises  me  to  raise  my  terms,  and,"  continued 
Dora,  suddenly  dropping  the  present  for  the 
past  tense,  "  I  have  done  it ;  for  he  spoke  op- 
posite Monsieur  Merand  himself,  who  could 
not  deny  it,  and  gave  me  nearly  a  hundred 
per  cent,  more  at  once.  So  what  do  you  think 
of  all  that  ?  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay,  scarcely  able  to  think  at 
all,  looked  both  confused  and  happy.  She  also 
looked  grateful,  and  her  mild  blue  eyes  were 
raised  to  Doctor  Richard's  face,  with  an  ex- 
pression he  could  not  mistake.  He  smiled 
kindly,  and  sitting  down  by  her  bedside,  en- 
tered into  conversation  with  her.  He  attacked 
the  Redmore  Mines  at  once,  and  put  the  mat- 
ter in  a  cheerful  and  airy  point  of  view,  which 
happened  to  be  particularly  suited  to  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  turn  of  mind. 

"  Such  catastrophes,"  said  Doctor  Richard, 
"  are  like  the  railway  accidents  and  steamboat 
collisions,  the  only  variety  of  modern  life.  The 
ups  and  downs  formerly  were  of  another  na- 
ture. Beautiful  ladies  were  not  safe  for  a 
moment,  especially  when  they  were  wealthy, 
but  were  the  lawful  prey  of  the  king,  his  fa- 
vorites, and  his  powerful  subjects.  As  to 
men,  the  strong  hand  was  the  right  sort  of 
hand  then.  Themis  had  not  merely  her 
eyes  bandaged,  but  fast  closed  in  sleep.  Every 
man  had  to  be  his  own  policeman,  and,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  his  own  judge  and  jury. 
This  variety  of  occupations  must,  to  say  the 


THE   DISHONEST   GILDER. 


65 


least  of  it,  have  made  a  gentleman  irritable, 
and  accounts  for  many  little  peculiarities  of 
those  days  which  would  otherwise  be  inexpli- 
cable to  our  modern  ideas.  And  now,  you  see, 
all  that  is  done,  for  lovers  do  not  kidnap  heir- 
esses, but  companies  wheedle  them  out  of 
their  gold.  Robin  Hood  or  Claude  Duval 
neither  put  bishops  to  ransom,  nor  dance  min- 
uets with  fine  ladies  on  the  highway  ;  but  for 
all  that,  money  flies  out  of  our  pockets  by  a 
magical  process  called  high  interest.  Sad, 
very  sad,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  only,  you  know,  we 
are  not  born  with  pockets." 

"  Dear  me,  to  be  sure  not !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  much  struck  with  the  fact,  which 
had  never  occurred  to  her  before ;  "  that  is  a 
very  original  remark.  Doctor  Richard." 

"  It  is  none  of  mine,"  he  answered,  smiling ; 
"  but  it  is  full  of  philosophy.  So  let  us  bear 
with  this  catastrophe,  which  we  cannot  mend, 
and  let  us  bless  our  stars  that  it  is  not  the 
destruction  of  life  or  limb,  as  it  might  be  if  it 
occurred  through  a  ra'ilway  or  a  steamer.  Loss 
of  money  is,  after  all,  the  least  of  the  three 
modern  evils." 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  brighten- 
ing. "I  have  always  had  a  horror  of  being 
drowned  or  disfigured,  and  I  would  much 
rather  lose  my  shares  of  the  Redmore  Mines 
than  even  my  left  eye." 

She  looked  quite  gay  and  cheerful  again, 
and  in  this  mood  Doctor  Richard  left  her, 
promising  to  call  again  in  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  charmed  with  her  med- 
ical attendant.  "  How  kind  he  seems ! "  she 
said. 

"  Seems  ! "  repeated  Dora,  with  emotion  ; 
"is,  mamma.  •Twice  he  came  to  you  yester- 
day evening,  and  he  sat  up  here  till  past  two 
rather  than  prescribe  an  opiate,  which,  it 
seems,  might  have  injured  you.  And  think 
how  kiud  it  was  of  him  to  interfere  with  Mon- 
sieur Merand  on  my  behalf.  Monsieur  Me- 
rand  looked  so  angry !     I  am  sorry  to  lose  my 


good  opinion  of  him,  but  I  am  afraid  he  has 
almost  cheated  me.  How  kind,  though,  of 
Doctor  Richard  not  to  mind  exposing  him  ! " 

"  Yes,  very  kind,"  murmured  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. "  And  when  are  you  to  get  the  money, 
Dora?" 

"To-day,  if  I  can  finish  my  drawing," 
eagerly  replied  her  daughter.  "  Indeed,  I  had 
better  go  at  once,"  she  added,  rising ;  "  Mon- 
sieur Merand  is  in  a  hurry  for  it,  and  I  am  in 
a  hurry  for  Monsieur  Merand's  five-franc 
pieces." 

"  Yes,  I  wish  you  had  the  money,"  rather 
querulously  said  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

Dora  saw  she  could  trust  her  mother  to  Mrs. 
Luan's  care,  and  that  it  would  be  better  for 
her  to  go  and  calm  the  poor  lady's  mind  by 
the  prospect  of  gain,  the  only  prospect  which 
then  seemed  to  have  any  charm  in  it  for  Mrs. 
Courtenay.  So  with  a  cheerfulness  half  real, 
half  put  on — alas !  how  many  things  are  so 
put  on  by  brave  hearts,  heroism,  patience,  and 
the  rest — ^Dora  took  her  portfolio  and  went 
forth.  On  her  way  she  thought,  "  Since  I  am 
selling  the  drawing,  I  no  longer  waat  the 
frame ;  and  since  it  is  not  ready,  had  I  not 
better  go  and  tell  that  poor  Dubois  not  to 
make  it  ?  Poor  fellow !  I  hope  he  will  not  be 
too  much  disappointed  ! " 

Dora  found  the  door  of  the  Duboises  ajar, 
and  she  pushed  it  open  hesitatingly ;  but  she 
was  not  prepared  for  the  sight  that  met  her 
view.  Her  frame,  bright  as  gilding  could 
make  it,  stood  before  her,  held  by  Monsieur 
Dubois,  whose  hand  had  got  miraculously  well 
during  the  night,  and  no  less  a  person  than 
Doctor  Richard  stood  with  his  back  to  her. 
He  turned  round,  and  seemed  surprised  to  see 
her,  whilst  consternation  appeared  on  Madame 
Dubois's  face,  and  Monsieur  Dubois  turned  pale 
as  a  ghost. 

"  Doctor  Richard,"  said  Dora,  reddening, 
"  was  that  man's  hand  unwell  ?  " 

"Unwell!  no.     Has  he  been  imposing  on 


66 


DORA. 


you,  Miss  Courtenay  ?  I  suppose  he  was  out 
of  work — a  child  ill,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dora,  "  that  is  it.  "Was  it 
not  true  ?  " 

Doctor  Richard  laughed  heartily,  and  seemed 
much  amused. 

"  The  old  story !  "  he  said.  "  My  dear 
young  lady,"  he  added,  "  why  did  you  not 
look  at  the  man's  low,  mean  face,  and  read 
him  ?  His  story  is  this.  I  have  kept  him  in 
work  for  the  last  six  weeks;  and  during  that 
time  neither  he,  nor  his  wife,  nor  his  children, 
nor  even  the  white  hen,  has  had  a  moment's 
ailment ! " 

Dora  was  mortified.  She  had  been  cheated 
and  deceived,  and  Doctor  Richard  only  laughed 
at  her  simplicity. 

"  He  is  a  low  vagabond,"  resumed  Doctor 
Richard,  still  speaking  English,  but  shaking 
his  forefinger  good-humoredly  at  the  culprit, 
who  looked  extremely  uneasy,  "  but  clever. 
Miss  Courtenay,  a  self-taught  genius ;  and 
though  it  is  abominable  that  he  should  thus 
impose  upon  you,  I  cannot  afford  to  be  angry 
with  him.  Look  at  that  frame  I  have  just 
bought.  There  is  fancy  and  invention  for  you ! 
Look  at  that  foliage  !  " 

"  Excuse  me,  Doctor  Richard,"  said  Dora, 
gently  touching  his  arm,  and  looking  both 
amused  and  puzzled,  "  but  this  frame  was 
made  for  me." 

"  Have  they  sold  you  my  frame  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Richard,  I  ordered  it." 

"  So  did  I,  Miss  Courtenay." 

They  exchanged  looks — then  Doctor  Richard 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  The  vagabond ! — the  low  vagabond  ! "  he 
said  again.  "He  wanted,  perhaps,  to  sell  the 
same  frame  twice  over.  Now,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay, take  my  advice,  do  not  let  yourself  be 
so  easily  imposed  upon.  But  what  a  pity  the 
rascal  should  be  so  clever!  Look  at  that  de- 
sign, how  correct  and  how  graceful,  and  those 
I  have  at  home  are  better  still.     I  must  for- 


give him.  Miss  Courtenay,  for  the  sake  of  that 
leaf!" 

Dora  blushed  and  laughed. 

"  But,  Doctor  Richard,"  she  stammered, 
"  the  design  is  not  his — 'tis  mine,  I  drew  it." 

"  You  drew  it.  Miss  Courtenay  !  " 

"  Yes.  I  wanted  it  for  my  drawing,  and  I 
drew  several  designs,  but  he  told  me  this  was 
tlie  best — and  so — " 

She  did  not  proceed.  Doctor  Richard  was 
an  altered  man.  The  veins  in  his  forehead 
were  thick  and  swollen,  and  his  full  brown 
eyes  burned  with  resentment  so  blighting  that 
it  almost  frightened  her.  The  amusement 
with  which  he  had  heard  Dora  tell  of  the  im- 
position practised  upon  her  vanished  when  he 
thus  learned  the  fraud  attempted  on  himself. 

"  And  so  they  were  your  drawings  ?  "  he 
cried  at  length,  speaking  angrily  and  fast,  and 
evidently  in  a  great  rage.  "  Your  drawings, 
which  the  rascal  passed  upon  me  for  his  ;  and 
I,  a  gull  as  I  ever  am,  believed  him  !  " 

His  look,  as  it  fell  on '  the  convicted  gilder, 
expressed  the  most  vehement  indignation. 
Evidently  Doctor  Richard  found  nothing  hu 
morous  or  entertaining  in  being  made  a  dupe 
of. 

"  Is  not  this  abhorrent  and  shameful  ?  "  he 
proceeded,  addressing  the  gilder  in  French, 
which  he  spoke  forcibly  and  well.  "  You 
might  have  spared  yourself  this  disgrace,  and 
been  none  the  poorer.  Nay,  the  truth  should 
have  brought  you  in  more  than  that  base 
lie." 

Monsieur  Dubois  murmured  some  unintelli- 
gible reply,  but  already  Dr.  Richard's  anger 
had  melted  into  scorn.  His  brow  grew  smooth 
again,  his  brown  eyes  resumed  their  serenity, 
and  he  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  his  own 
expense. 

"  To  think  of  my  addressing  that  low-minded 
wretch  as  if  he  knew  the  beauty  of  truth ! "  he 
said,  turning  to  Dora.  "  Whereas  she  never 
left  her  well,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned.     But 


THE   DUTCH   PICTURE. 


67 


how  are  we  to  deal  with  this  rascal,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay  ?  Who  keeps  the  frame  ?  I  ordered 
it,  but  then  you  gave  the  design,  so  that  if 
you  want  it — " 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Dora,  coloring  a  little. 

"  Then  I  shall  keep  it,"  he  said,  readily.  "  I 
shall  call  again  and  settle  with  you,  sir,"  he 
added,  giving  Monsieur  Dubois  a  significant 
look  ;  "  for  I  can  see  in  your  face,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay,"  he  continued,  looking  at  her  with  a 
smile,  as  they  both  left  the  place,  "  that  I 
must  not  be  too  hard  on  this  guilty  couple  in 
your  presence.  You  looked  quite  startled  a 
while  ago." 

"You  looked  very  angry.  Doctor  Rich- 
ard." 

"  Did  I  ?  "Well,  Saint  Augustine  says  that 
each  man  bears  within  himself  Adam,  Eve, 
and  the  serpent,  and  I  confess  I  find  it  so. 
Often  that  weak  Adam,  and  frail  Eve,  and 
tempting  serpent  are  busy  with  me.  So  lest 
Adam  should  prevail  against  me,  I  now  leave 
that  sneaking  impostor  and  his  wife.  T  have 
no  doubt  they  are  quarrelling  now,  with  the 
boy  looking  on,  and  the  white  hen  cackling. 
Let  them  !  Confess  that  you  think  me  a  fool !  " 
he  abruptly  added,  stepping  on  the  staircase 
to  look  hard  at  Dora. 

"  You  forget  that  I,  too,  was  deceived,"  re- 
plied Dora,  smiling. 

"  In  matters  of  which  you  could  have  little 
or  no  knowledge.  But  if  I  had  looked  at  the 
man's  head,  I  might  have  known  he  could  not 
be  the  author  of  that  beautiful  drawing.  Yet 
it  was  that  which  blinded  me.  I  saw  it,  and 
forgot  the  man.  So  there  is  ever  something 
to  account  for  my  mistakes ;  for  it  is  a  hu- 
miliating confession,  though  a  true  one,  to  say 
that  i't  is  my  lot  to  be  deceived.  There  is  some- 
thing inexpressively  persuasive  and  convin- 
cing to  me  in  an  assertion.  A  child's  falsehood 
has  often  prevailed  over  me,  and  yet.  Miss 
Courtenay,  I  am  not  an  idiot,  I  assure  you." 


He  spoke  with  a  gravity  which  nearly  dis- 
concerted Dora. 

"  I  can  see  you  are  much  inclined  to  laugh," 
he  resumed ;  "  but  you  are  all  wrong.  It  is 
idiotic  to  be  so  easily  deceived,  and  yet  I  am 
no  idiot — I  maintain  it  in  the  face  of  what  has 
just  occurred.  Do  not  protest ;  but  just  allow 
me  to  follow  out  my  argument.  You  have 
read  Don  Quixote,  I  have  no  doubt ;  well 
then,  has  it  not  struck  you  that  this  unfor- 
tunate gentleman  commits  but  one  error,  only 
it  is  the  first ;  in  all  else  he  is  shrewd,  clever, 
sensible,  well-informed.  This  is  my  case. 
Ninety-nine  things  I  see  clearly ;  but  the  hun- 
dredth which  escapes  me  is  just  the  keystone 
of  the  edifice.  If  that  Dubois  had  assured  me 
that  he  was  benevolent,  humane,  a  kind  hus- 
band, a  faithful  friend,  I  should  have  been 
amused  at  his  attempting  to  practise*  on  my 
credulity ;  but  he  said  I  am  an  untaught  ge- 
nius, and  I  became  his  victim !  " 

Doctor  Richard  spoke  very  composedly  of 
his  deficiencies,  as  composedly,  indeed,  as  if 
they  concerned  him  not.  Dora,  though  she 
heard  him  in  silence,  drew  her  own  conclu- 
sions. Though  his  brown  eyes  were  piercing 
enough,  eyes  that  could  see  far  and  deep,  they 
were  more  penetrating  than  shrewd.  The 
glamour  of  imagination  could  baffle  the  keen- 
ness of  that  vision,  and  Doctor  Richard  be- 
longed to  the  class  of  men  who  are  to  be  the 
victims  of  their  inferiors.  He  knew  it,  but 
the  knowledge  availed  him  not. 

"  His  very  gifts  betray  him,"  thought  Dora, 
"  and  have  kept  him  back  in  the  race  of  life. 
Poor  fellow,"  she  continued,  in  her  mental 
soliloquy,  as  he  left  her,  and  walked  away 
briskly,  "-I  am  afraid  he  spends  his  money 
very  foolishl}'.  What  could  he  want  with  all 
those  frames,  now  ?  " 

Dora  shook  her  head  at  Dr.  Richard's  im- 
prudence, and  was  still  censuring  him  when 
she  entered  the  Gallery. 


68 


DORA. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

There  were  some  last  touches  to  be  be- 
stowed on  the  music-lesson,  and  Dora  lingered 
over  her  task.  For  suppose  Monsieur  Meraud 
should  again  find  fault  with  this  drawing,  and 
utter  those  severe  remarks  which,  in  Dora's 
present  position,  it  would  be  so  hard  to  hear  ? 
Whilst  she  was  thus  engaged  in  the  picture- 
gallery,  she  heard  a  step  behind  the  chair, 
and  looking  round  in  some  surprise  at  the  un- 
wonted interruption,  she  saw  Doctor  Eichard. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  make  one  or  two 
suggestions  to  you.  Miss  Courtenay  ?  "  he  said, 
iu  his  easy  way. 

Dora  assented  with  a  little  flush  of  emotion, 
which  Doctor  Richard  did  not  seem  to  per- 
ceive. He  proceeded  with  his  suggestions,  as 
he  called  them  ;  and  keen,  subtle  suggestions 
they  were,  implying  no  small  amount  of  theo- 
retical and  practical  skill. 

"  He  talks  more  hke  a  painter  than  like  a 
doctor,"  thought  Dora,  "and,  indeed,  more 
like  a  professor  than  like  either." 

"You  draw.  Doctor  Richard?"  she  could 
not  help  saying. 

"  Yes,  I  do  all  my  own  illustrations,"  he 
carelessly  replied. 

"  He  is  a  writer  upon  art,"  thought  Dora. 

But  memory,  thougli  questioned,  remained 
mute,  and  had  nothing  to  tell  about  Doctor 
Richard's  name. 

"  You  did  well  to  take  this  pretty  little 
music-lesson,"  he  resumed — "  here,  at  least, 
imagination  is  free.  I  am  not  an  inquisitive 
man,  not  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word ; 
my  neighbor's  business  troubles  me  not,  but  I 
confess  to  you  that  a  little  picture  by  one  of 
the  minor  Dutch  painters  once  gave  me  many 
a  pleasant  hour.  The  burgher  father,  the 
matronly  mother,  and  the  daughter  fair  and 
blooming,  were  all  primly  seated  before  me. 
The  room  was  large,  rather  dark,  perhaps, 
with  plenty  of  plate,  and  two  blue  china  vases 


on  an  oaken  sort  of  dresser.  It  was  all  so 
minutely  painted,  that  the  Eastern  pattei'u  of 
the  carpet,  the  flowering  of  the  brocade  iu 
the  mother's  dress,  the  fine  lace  cape  of  the 
daughter,  were  recognizable,  and  could  have 
been  identified.  The  picture  was  about  two 
hundred  years  old.  Two  hundred  years,  and 
their  vicissitudes,  battles,  and  generations  had 
passed  since  that  calm  home  had  been  some- 
where in  one  of  the  old  Dutch  cities.  I  would 
have  given  anything  to  have  had  the  jjower 
of  going  back  for  a  while  to  those  large  oaken 
rooms,  with  their  substantial  furniture — to 
have  conversed  with  these  people,  t)r,  if  that 
were  too  ambitious  a  desire,  considering  that 
I  do  not  know  Dutch,  to  have  seen  them  in 
their  daily  life,  and  household  occupations. 
Surely  there  must  have  been  some  chamber 
up-stairs  in  which  that  merchant  kept  his 
money-bags,  or  reckoned  his  tulip-bulbs  ? 
Surely,  too,  that  good  dame  must  have  had 
her  empire  in  wide  store-rooms,  with  jars  of 
pickles  and  pi-eserves.  As  for  the  young  lady, 
I  could  imagine  her  bower  with  birds,  and  an 
embroidery-frame,  and  a  looking-glass  in  the 
window.  I  could  imagine  all  that,  but  as  in  a 
dream ;  for,  after  all,  this  supposed  merchant 
may  have  been  some  hard  reader,  a  disciple 
of  Grotius,  who  stored  books,  and  not  gold, 
and  who  scorned  tulips.  His  wife,  in  her 
way,  may  have  set  her  mind  above  mere 
household  comforts,  and  been  a  stern  Chris- 
tian, and  between  these  two  the  poor  young 
damsel  i)robably  led  a  dull  life.  I  doubt  if 
she  had  birds.  Their  singing  would  have  dis- 
turbed her  papa's  studies,  and  her  severe 
mamma  held  embroidery  a  profane  loss  of 
time,  and  condemned  her  to  knitting  and  her 
Bible.  So,  you  see,  here  are  two  totally  dif- 
ferent versions  of  the  same  story ;  and  having 
found  that  I  could  thus  construct  not  two,  but 
twenty,  I  turned  the  picture  with  its  face  to 
the  wall,  and  forbade  it  to  speak  to  me  more." 
Did  he  speak  in  jest  or  iu  earnest  ?     Dora 


THE   FIVE-FKA2fC  PIECES. 


69 


could  not  tell,  but  stole  a,  doubtful  look  at 
Doctor  Richard,  but  he  seemed  unconscious 
of  her  surprise.  He  spoke  with  the  compos- 
ure of  one  who  is  unaware  of  having  said 
any  thing  unusual,  and  with  the  facility  which 
comes  from  the  habit  of  being  listened  to. 

"  Is  he  a  lecturer,  an  author,  or  both  ? " 
thought  Dora ;  "  and  yet  there  is  something 
in  him  which  belongs  to  none  of  these — some- 
thing of  the  man  of  the  world,  who  makes 
himself  at  home  everywhere  and  with  every 
one." 

But  if  Doctor  Richard  had  no  suspicion  of 
the  conjectures  in  which  Dora  indulged  con- 
cerning him,  he  saw  very  well  that  her  pencil 
remained  idle. 

"  I  must  not  prevent  you  from  working,"  he 
said,  smiling ;  and  renewing  his  promise  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Courtenay  in  the  evening,  he  left 
her. 

As  he  walked  away,  Dora's  look  followed 
him  a  little  pensively. 

"Poor  fellow!"  she  thought,  contrasting 
his  erect  figure  and  easy  carriage  with  his  in- 
different apparel,  "  I  fear  he  has  been  sadly 
tossed  about  by  life.  Medicine,  art,  author- 
ship have  not  done  much  for  him !  " 

But  she  admired  him  for  all  that.  She  ad- 
mired him  as  the  independent  and  the  clear- 
sighted always  admire  a  vigorous  and  original 
mind,  even  though  Fortune  should  not  have 
favored  it. 

Dora  left  before  the  closing  of  the  Gallery ; 
and  as  she  passed  by  the  open  library-door  on 
her  way  down-stairs,  she  saw  Doctor  Richard 
reading  within.  A  heavy  folio  lay  open  before 
him,  and  he  was  absorbed  in  its  contents. 

"  Doctor  Richard  has  not  got  many  patients," 
thought  Dora  ;  "  I  wonder  whether  he  reads 
on  medicine  or  on  art  ?  And  to  think  of  his 
spending  so  much  money  at  Monsieur  Me- 
rand's ! " 

To  receive  from  and  not  to  spend  with  tliat 
gentleman  was  now  Dora's  errand  on  her  way 


home.  She  entered  his  shop  with  slight  heis- 
tation  ;  but  Monsieur  Merand  was  an  altered 
man.  The  drawing  was  perfect,  and  he  had 
but  one  regi'et — he  must  pay  Mademoiselle  in 
silver  five-franc  pieces.  But  with  her  bright 
smile  Dora  tied  up  the  welcome  though  cum- 
bersome coins  in  hei*  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
thus  laden,  went  home. 

"  Here  is  news  from  the  Redmore  Mines," 
gayly  said  Dora,  and  opening  her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief, she  scattered  its  contents  on  her 
mother's  bed. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  eyes  glistened  as  she  saw 
the  silver  shower, 

"  It  is  not  that  I  am  so  fond  of  money,"  she 
apologetically  said  ;  "  but  then  one  cannot  do 
without  it." 

Mrs.  Luan  was  mute,  but  Dora  saw  the  flush 
on  her  sallow  cheek,  and  could  read  its  mean- 
ing. Dora  felt  happy,  and  happiness  is  loqua- 
cious. She  told  them  how  she  had  worked  at 
her  drawing,  how  gracious  Monsieur  Merand 
had  been,  and  in  all  she  said  the  name  of  Doc- 
tor Richard  invariably  came  back.  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay was  too  much  pleased  with  her  medical 
attendant  to  censure  this  frequent  repetition 
of  his  name  ;  but  when,  even  after  dinner,  Dora 
took  up  the  theme,  Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  been 
almost  silent  since  the  preceding  day's»catas- 
trophe,  now  looked  up,  and  said  sullenly — 

"  I  hate  Doctor  Richard  !  " 

"  Aunt !  "  cried  Dora  amazed — too  much 
amazed  to  be  indignant. 

"  I  hate  hun ! "  resumed  Mrs.  Luan  ;  "  look 
at  his  clothes — shabby ;  he  is  no  good  doctor, 
not  he  !    He  is  nothing — no  one — nobody." 

She  was  almost  excited  now.  Dora  would 
have  answered,  and  perhaps  with  less  respect 
and  gentleness  than  she  generally  showed  to 
Mrs.  Luan — for  her  cheeks  were  flushed  and 
her  eyes  sparkled — if  Doctor  Richard  himself 
had  not  at  that  precise  moment  been  shown 
up  by  Madame  Bertrand. 

"  A  good  sign  when  the  patient  is  lively," 


ro 


DORA. 


be  said,  goiug  to  Mrs.  Courtenay's  bed  with  a 
pleasant  smile ;  "  but  I  do  not  mean  to  give 
up  my  attendance  yet.  You  are  not  quite 
well,  my  dear  madam." 

"  I  do  not  feel  quite  well,  doctor,  but  much 
better — oh  !  so  much  better,"  she  added  with 
her  little  raising  of  the  voice. 

He  sat  down  by  her  and  felt  her  pulse.  As 
Mrs.  Courtenay  drew  back  her  hand  the  mo- 
tion disturbed  the  counterpane,  and  the  five- 
franc  pieces  which  Dora  had  left  and  forgotten 
there,  rolled  on  the  floor  with  many  a  silver 
ring.  Doctor  Richard  gave  a  little  start  of 
surprise,  and  Dora  blushed. 

"  I  put  them  there  to  show  mamma  that  I 
can  earn  money,"  she  said,  trying  to  laugh  it 
off,  "  for,  thanks  to  you,  Doctor  Richard,  Mon- 
sieur Merand  has  been  liberal." 

She  began  picking  up  the  fallen  coins,  and 
Doctor  Richard  assisted  her.  When  he  handed 
her  those  which  he  had  gathered  he  was  smil- 
ing, and  Dora  could  not  help  thinking  how  dif- 
ferent was  the  warm  genial  face  she  now  looked 
at,  from  the  dark  wrathful  countenance  she  had 
seen  that  morning.  That  was  all  storm — this 
was  all  sunshine. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  good,"  thought  Dora  ;  "  he 
looks  as  pleased  as  if  that  money  were  his  !  " 

"Doctor  Richard,"  she  said  aloud,  "I  met 
Madame  Dubois.  She  begged  hard  to  be  for- 
given." 

"  Will  you  forgive  them.  Miss  Courtenay  ?  " 

"  Yes — will  not  you  ?  " 

"  No ;  you  know  the  Chinese  saying,  '  If  I 
am  deceived  once,  the  blame  lies  with  the  de- 
ceiver ;  but  if  I  am  twice  deceived,  the  blame 
lies  with  me.' " 

Doctor  Richard  spoke  so  positively,  that 
Dora  was  silenced. 

"  Now,  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  resumed,  "  do 
not  think  me,  soft  as  I  have  proved  myself, 
a  victim  to  the  dreadful  delusion  of  the  de- 
serving poor.  There  arc  such,  I  suppose,  but 
just  as  there   are  deserving  rich,   in   a  very 


moderate  ratio.  No,  I  do  not  ask  for  that 
wonderful  bird — a  virtuous  man  in  distress, 
I  am  satisfied  to  take  humanity  such  as  it  is, 
and  relieve  its  suiferings  so  far  as  I  can,  which 
is  very  little ;  but  I  have  a  strong  hatred  for 
moral  ugliness,  and  so  when  I  get  such  a  rep- 
tile as  the  gilder  in  my  path,  and  can  see  no 
redeeming  trait  in  him,  I  leave  him  to  shift 
for  himself.  Some  people  will  be  drowned 
like  the  man  in  the  story,  and  who  can  pre- 
vent it  ?  Listen  to  that  drunken  wretch  now 
shouting  down  the  street.  Who  can  save 
him?" 

"  Poor  fellow  ! "  compassionately  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay  ;  "  it  is  all  the  cider.  Perhaps  you 
drink  wine.  Doctor  Richard,  and  do  not  know 
how  perfidious  cider  is.  I  do.  When  we  came 
here  first,  I  actually  got  tipsy  !  "  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  raising  her  voice  in  amazement  at 
the  strangeness  of  the  fact ;  "  and  all  for  one 
glass  of  cid^r." 

"Indeed  !"  exclaimed  Doctor  Rijhard,  much 
amused. 

"  I  did,"  emphatically  continued  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. "  I  came  in  very  warm,  and  Madame 
Bertrand  would  make  me  taste  her  cider.  I 
took  one  glass,  and  my  head  began  spinning, 
oh !  so  much.  '  Madame  Bertrand,'  I  cried, 
'  your  cider  is  very  good,  but  it  is  very  perfid- 
ious ! '  '  Not  at  all,  madame,'  she  replied ; 
'  you  are  only  a  little  dizzy.'  Doctor  Richard, 
you  may  believe  me,  I  could  not  get  up-stairs 
— I  had  to  sit  down  on  the  steps  ;  and  I  must 
have  been  really  tipsy,  for  it  seems  I  got  so 
affectionate,  and  squeezed  Madame  Bertrand's 
hand  quite  fondly.  And  I  talked  so — oh  ! 
how  I  did  talk !  Poor  Dora  came  down  to  me 
a  little  frightened,  and  what  do  you  think  I 
said  to  her,  doctor?  'Dora,'  I  said,  'you  are 
a  dear,  good  girl,  but  I  must  say  it,  once  for 
all — I  have  never  told  you  before,  but  I  must 
tell  you  now.  You  stay  too  long  at  your 
prayers  in  the  morning ;  and  then,  Dora,  you 
arc  too  fastidious  about  your  dress.     It  is  all 


MRS.  LUAN'S  DISLIKE   TO   DR.   RICHARD. 


71 


very  well  to  be  pious,  and  to  wear  nice  collars, 
but  still,  Dora,  though  I  like  it,  I  also  like  not 
to  be  kept  so  long  from  my  breakfast,  so 
please  to  mend  ! '  Dora  was  quite  bewildered, 
poor  dear !  at  the  lecture,  but  she  helped  me 
up-stairs,  and  I  took^  a  nap  in  my  chair  and 
woke  quite  well.  And  that  is  how  I  got  tipsy 
on  a  glass  of  cider;  and.  Doctor  Richard," 
added  Mrs.  Courtenay,  raising  her  voice  in 
wonder  at  her  own  suggestion,  "  think  what 
a  terrible  effect  a  good  many  glasses  must 
have." 

Dora  had  felt  rather  uncomfortable  during 
this  narrative,  especially  at  that  portion  which 
referred  to  the  length  of  her  devotions,  and 
the  nicety  of  her  collars  ;  but  though  Doctor 
Richard  seemed  much  amused,  he  never  looked 
at  her.  Moreover,  his  manner  as  he  listened 
and  spoke  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  expressed  a  gentle 
and  respectful  sympathy  that  went  to  Dora's 
very  heart.  With  Dora  herself,  when  he  ad- 
dressed her,  his  tone,  his  looks,  his  bearing, 
were  those  of  a  friend — kind,  but  not  too 
familiar.  His  manner,  which  had  been  a  little 
abrupt  at  first,  was  now  tempered  by  a  refine- 
ment and  a  courtesy  which  to  Dora  seemed 
both  rare  and  delightful.  She  thought  she  had 
never  met  with  so  perfect  a  gentleman.  Did 
her  bright  open  face  betray  her  secret  admira- 
tion, or  was  it  part  of  Doctor  Richard's  plan  to 
fascinate  both  mother  and  daughter  ?  Even  a 
keen  observer  might  have  failed  to  settle  this 
question,  but  the  dullest  must  have  seen  that 
Doctor  Richard  bestowed  a  considerable  por- 
tion of  his  attention  on  Miss  Courtenay.  Even 
when  he  spoke  to  her  mother,  it  was  on  Dora 
that  bis  eyes  rested.  Few  people  had  ever 
looked  at  this  girl  coldly,  the  light  in  her  face 
compelled  corresponding  warmth  in  the  gazer, 
and  Doctor  Richard  obeyed  the  general  rule. 
When  she  spoke  he  smiled  and  listened  with 
evident  pleasure  to  the  little  sallies  by  which 
she  endeavore^  to  amuse  her  mother.  When 
she  was  silent  his  gaze  wandered  toward  her, 


and  rested  on  her  radiant  face  and  light  figure, 
with  evident  enjoyment.  She  was  like  a  Titian 
or  a  Giorgione  to  him,  a  glorious  bit  of  color 
lighting  those  dull  rooms,  and  contrasting  in 
its  brightness  with  the  paleness  and  subdued 
tints  of  age,  as  seen  in  Mrs.  Courtenay  and 
Mrs.  Luan. 

Now  there  is  a  subject  on  which  women 
have  a  quickness  of  perception  nothing  can 
baffle — it  is  the  impression  they  produce. 
Dora  knew,  as  well  as  if  Doctor  Richard  had 
sworn  it,  that  he  admired  her.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  such  admiration  formerly,  and 
had-received  it  too  often  to  be  mistaken  now. 
What  she  saw,  Mrs.  Courtenay  saw  too,  only 
she  drew  maternal  conclusions  which  Dora 
left  in  abeyance — that  Doctor  Richard  was  a 
very  fascinating  man,  a  very  kind  one,  too ; 
how  delightful  if  he  were  to  marry  Dora! 
Good,  innocent  soul !  She  never  looked  at 
Doctor  Richard's  coat,  nor  asked  herself  how 
he  could  keep  a  wife  and  rear  a  fiimily  !  The 
future  had,  in  more  senses  than  one,  ever  been 
a  sealed  book  to  this  amiable  and  improvident 
lady.  Mrs.  Luan,  too,  being  a  womau,  saw 
what  was  going  on,  and  conjectured.  Her 
slow,  dull  mind  fastened  on  Doctor  Richard's 
admiration  of  ber  niece  with  tlie  tenacity  of  a 
leech,  and  extracted  all  that  such  admiration 
could  possibly  yield. 

She  already  disliked  the  man,  as  the  bearer 
of  woeful  tidings ;  she  now  hated  him  as  being 
poor,  and  coming  to  the  house  to  rob  them  of 
their  only  support.  In  her  sluggish  way  she 
had  thought  over  their  position,  since  the  pre- 
ceding morning,  and  she  had  realized  the  fact 
that  Dora  was  now  their  mainstay.  John 
would  help  ;  but  Mrs.  Luan  could  not  bear  to 
rob  poor  John,  and  she  was  willing  to  lean 
heavily,  if  need  be,  upon  her  niece. 

Such  being  the  case,  why  did  that  needy 
doctor  come  hankering  after  Dora  ?  They 
did  not  want  him.  Let  him.begonc,  witli  his 
shabbv  clothes  and  look  of  decayed  gentility  ! 


72 


DORA. 


For  that  Doctor  Eicliard's  admiration  might 
be  the  disinterested  feeling  which  many  men 
yield  to  a  young  and  fascinating  woman,  Mrs. 
Luan  did  not  admit  in  that  moment  of  selfish 
terror.  She  only  saw  the  danger ;  and  she 
not  merely  saw  it,  but  she  magnified  it  tenfold. 

Doctor  Richai'd  was  too  quick  and  observant 
not  to  become  aware  of  Mrs.  Luan's  hard,  in- 
tent look.  It  annoyed  him,  yet,  thanks  to  the 
blindness  of  which  he  was  uselessly  conscious, 
its  meaning  was  not  apparent  to  him.  He 
saw  a  dull,  heavy-looking  lady,  with  a  hideous 
piece  of  patch-work  on  her  lap,  and  he  felt 
that  there  was  something  unpleasant  to  .him, 
almost  repugnant  in  her  aspect ;  but  he  never 
thought  that  this  low-browed  woman  was  the 
Nemesis  of  his  life.  He  never  thought,  as, 
after  spending  an  hour  or  more  with  Mrs. 
Courtenay  and  her  daughter,  he  took  his  leave, 
that  the  woman  who  rose  and  gave  him  a  cold, 
lifeless  hand,  was  the  arbitress  of  his  fate; 
that  from  her  would  spring  the  greatest  sor- 
rows and  the  greatest  joys  of  his  existence. 
That  this  being,  his  moral  and  intellectual  in- 
ferioi',  would  nevertheless  rule  him  with  a  rod 
of  iron  in  weal  and  in  woe,  Doctor  Richard 
never  suspected. 

"  Poor  thing !  she  is  predestined  to  a  brain 
disease,"  was  his  medical  conclusion,  as  he 
looked  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

What  subtle  and  mysterious  chain  of  small 
events  is  it  which  we  so  often  qualify  as  in- 
evitable ?  Is  there  anything  not  immediately 
dependent  on  God's  will  to  which  "  inevitable  " 
does  really  apply  ?  Are  we  not  free  to  avoid 
or  to  seek  ?  Could  we  not  walk  on  the 
right  side  of  the  road  as  well  as  on  the  left  ? 
Must  we  perforce  take  that  turning  instead  of 
this  ?  If  we  go  on  board  the  boat  whicli  is  to 
perish,  might  we  not  have  sailed  in  that  which, 
after  crossing  smooth  seas,  will  come  to  port 


safely  ?  Inevitable,  forsooth  !  It  is  the  word 
of  presumption  and  of  weakness,  the  excuse 
for  all  short-sighted  folly,  the  plea  of  all  error, 
shght  or  fatal. 

That  "  inevitable,"  as  it  -is  called,  was  now 
busy  with  Dora  Courtcnay's  destiny.  Her 
mother  got  well  again.  Even  Mrs.  Luan  re- 
covered the  shock  of  the  Eedmore  Mines ;  a 
trifle  was  saved  out  of  the  wreck ;  poor  John 
Luan  wrote  an  affectionate  letter,  and  sent 
twenty  pounds ;  and  Monsieur  Merand  ordered 
a  series  of  drawings,  which  kept  Dora  in  con- 
stant occupation.  All  this  was  as  it  should 
be — was,  at  least,  as  it  often  is  in  life,  where 
the  waters  flow  smoothly  again  over  the 
greatest  wrecks,  but  the  supererogation  was 
in  the  continued  visits  of  Doctor  Richard.  He 
came  to  see  Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  perhaps  be- 
cause her  complaint  was  mental  rather  than 
bodily,  he  came  more  as  a  friend  than  as  a 
doctor.  He  wished  to  cheer  her,  and  he  suc- 
ceeded. His  conversation  was  attTactive  and 
varied — the  conversation  of  a  well-read  man ; 
he  had  also  a  beautiful  voice,  mellow,  har- 
monious, and  full-toned,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay 
once  frankly  told  him  it  was  like  music  to 
hear  him.  His  society,  in  short,  was  both 
genial  and  interesting,  and  Dora's  mother  was 
getting  accustomed  to  it,  and  required  it  as 
much  as  her  cup  of  tea  in  the  evening,  when 
it  suddenly  ceased. 

"  I  wonder  why  Doctor  Richard  comes  no 
more  ? "  rather  lalaintively  said  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. 

"  Because  you  are  quite  well,  mamma,"  re- 
plied Dora,  trying  not  to  look  as  disappointed 
as  she  felt. 

For  Doctor  Richard  had  grown  invisible. 
Neither  when  she  passed  by  his  house,  nor  in 
the  picture-gallery,  nor  in  the  reading-room, 
nor  even  at  Monsieur  Merand's,  did  Dora  see 
him.  And  there  now  fell  a  restlessness  upon 
her,  of  which  she  herself  knew  «iot  the  cause. 
She  worked,  she  played,  she  read,  she  sewed. 


ENNUI. 


73 


she  was  never  idle  a  second,  and  yet  some- 
thing ailed  Dora. 

"  What  a  pity  Doctor  Richard  is  not  a  friend 
of  ours,"  she  sometimes  thought,  "  it  used  to 
do  me  good  when  he  came.  His  fancies  are 
rather  wild  sometimes,  and  one  does  not  ex- 
actly know  when  he  is  in  jest  or  in  earnest ;  but 
he  used  to  set  me  thinking,  and  I  feel  the 
want  of  it  now  that  he  is  gone.  It  is  wonder- 
ful all  I  learned  from  him  when  he  came  and 
stood  behind  my  chair  and  advised  me.  Some 
of  his  criticisms  were  so  many  rays  of  light.  I 
know  I  want  a  critic,  and  mamma  and  aunt 
admire  all  I  do." 

But  requisite  though  his  presence  was  to 
Dora,  Doctor  Richard  came  not.  Then  she 
did  her  best  to  remember  all  that  this  judi- 
cious critic  had  said.  And  memory  brought 
it  all  back  to  Dora.  Looks,  words,  the  very 
intonation  with  which  they  had  been  spoken, 
returned  so  vividly  that  it  sometimes  seemed 
Doctor  Richard  himself  stood  by.  And  she 
never  asked  herself  why  she  thus  brought  this 
stranger  in  her  life,  when  he  had  evidently 
sought  another  path  than  that  which  she 
trod  —  why  she  compelled  him  to  be  thus 
with  her  in  spirit,  when  his  will  kept  him  so 
far  away  in  body. 

Some  of  the  ancient  philosophers  thought 
that  a  man  could  be  struck  with  a  thunderbolt 
and  neither  know  nor  feel  it.  Perhaps  they 
came  to  this  strange  conclusion  from  their 
knowledge  of  what  happens  in  the  mysterious 
world  of  a  human  heart.  There,  indeed,  the 
thunderbolt  may  fall,  and  leave  us  unaware  of 
its  presence.  The  great  calamity,  the  crown- 
ing sorrow  of  our  life,  may  have  come  to  us, 
and  we  may  not  even  suspect  it,  so  sudden 
and  so  invisible  was  its  approach.  If  such  a 
grief  had  come  to  Dora,  her  ignorance  of  it 
was  complete.  She  felt  dull,  and  reason  tell- 
ing her  she  had  no  cause  for  such  dulncss,  that 
she  led  a  useful,  active  life,  with  many  legiti- 
mate sources   of  interest  in  it,   she  argued 


against  herself,  and  resisted  the  enemy ;  but, 
unluckily,  reason  too  often  took  Doctor  Rich- 
ard's voice,  and  spoke  in  his  language. 

Dora  was  sitting  with  her  mother  and  Mrs. 
Luan.  It  was  evening-time ;  the  lamp,  with 
its  green  shade,  gave  a  circle  of  light  on  the 
table,  and  left  the  room  in  a  soft  brown  gloom, 
through  which  you  caught  dim  outlines  of  fur- 
niture, with  here  and  there  a  speck  of  light 
from  some  bit  of  china  or  gilt  frame  on  the 
wall.  Mrs.  Luan  \yas  engaged  on  her  patch- 
work, Mrs.  Courtenay  was  busy  with  a  game 
of  patience,  and  Dora  was  mending  linen. 
They  were  very  silent,  but  the  wind  moaned 
without,  and  now  and  then  a  gust  brought  a 
heavy  pattering  shower  of  rain  against  the 
window-panes. 

"  How  different  it  would  all  be  if  Dr.  Richard 
were  here ! "  thought  Dora,  and  a.  thrill  passed 
through  her  at  the  thought ;  "  then,  instead  of 
this  heavy  silence,  we  should  hear  his  full, 
■genial  voice  talking  pleasant  wisdom,  or  no 
less  pleasant  paradox.  How  he  would  preach 
me  out  of  this  duluess  of  mine,  if  he  knew  of 
it !  How  he  did  go  on  about  ennui  the  last 
time  he  cafeie !  TTas  it  the  last  ?  '  Depend 
upon  it.  Miss  Courtenay,'  he  said,  '  the  great 
drama  of  ninety-three  was  hastened  by  the 
feeling  which  the  French  call  cimuL  There 
must  have  been  dreadful  weariness  in  that 
pompous  old  Versailles,  with  its  routine,  and 
its  endless  round  of  solemn  gayeties.  These 
long-clipped  avenues,  and  statues,  and  vases, 
and  water-works,  looking  all  so  formal  in  the 
bright  hot  sun,  made  one  pine  for  variety. 
Anything  for  a  change.  So  welcome  Vol- 
taire, welcome  Rousseau,  welcome  that  inso- 
lent barber  Figaro,  who  sapped  so  gayly  the 
foundations  of  the  old  regime.  Welcome, 
above  all,  the  Encyclopodie.  There  is  a  charm 
about  impiety  when  all  else  (iiils.  The  end, 
to  be  sure,  was  tragic,  and  seas  of  blood  had 
to  flow  ere  the  safe  shore  was  reached ;  but 
then,  for  a  few  years,  at  least,  the  French  ua- 


74 


DORA. 


tiou  was  saved  from  amul — an  inestimable 
blessing,  Miss  Courtenay,  for  so  lively  a  na- 
tion.' " 

Yes,  thus  Lad  Doctor  Richard  spoken  ;  and 
as  she  recalled  his  language,  and  wisely  ad- 
monished herself  with  it,  Dora  seemed  to  see 
Doctor  Richard  himself  sPtting  in  yonder  va- 
cant chair,  and  looking  at  her  across  the 
table  with  those  genial  brown  eyes,  in  which 
he  could  put  no  small  amount  of  mirth  and 
humor.  The  vision  brougl^  no  blush  to  Dora's 
cheek,  no  emotion  to  her  heart;  but  it  was 
pleasant,  though  brief. 

"  What  a  pity  he  does  not  like  our  society 
as  much  as  we  like  his  ! "  she  thought,  honest- 
ly ;  "  but  it  is  no  great  wonder.  It  must  be 
dull  to  come  and  sit  here  with  us,  and  yet  I 
am  selfish  enough  to  wish  that  he  would  come 
again ! " 

As  she  confessed  thus  much  to  herself,  her 
mother  pushed  the  cards  away,  and  exclaimed, 
a  little  pettishly :  ^ 

"How  dull  you  both  are!  I  wish  Doctor 
Richard  would  come  in,"  she  added. 

Dora  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  coin- 
cidence in  their  wishes.  ' 

"  But  you  are  not  ill,  mamma,"  she  said, 
gayly,  "  so  why  should  he  come  ?  " 

"  Not  ill ! "  replied  Mrs.  Courtenay,  looking 
much  injured — "  and  pray,  how  do  you  know 
that  I  am  not  ill  ?  " 

"  But  I  may  hope,  mamma,  you  are  not  so," 
gravely  answered  her  daughter. 

"  I  do  not  feel  at  all  well,"  triumphantly  re- 
joined Mrs.  Courtenay,  sitting  up  in  her  chair 
and  looking  around  her  with  a  sort  of  exulta- 
tion at  her  superiority  over  her  daughter  and 
her  sister-in-law — "  I  have  the  most  extraor- 
dinary buzzing  in  my  right  ear." 

Spite  this  ominous  symptom,  Dora  testified 
no  great  uneasirtess,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  saw 
it  and  looked  offended. 

"  I  think  you  might  send  round*  for  Doctor 
Richard,"  she  said  a  little  warmly;  "I  really 


think  you  might,  Dora,  seeing  me  so  poor- 
ly." 

"  But,  mamma,"  argued  Dora,  "  you  were  so 
well  a  while  ago,  that  it  seems  a  pity  to  dis- 
turb Doctor  Richard  uselessly." 

"  Uselessly  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
raising  her  voice  in  mingled  amazement  and 
indignation.  "Uselessly!  when  I  tell  you  I 
am  quite  poorly,  and  when  Dr.  Richard  has 
only  to  cross  the  street  to  come  to  us." 

Dora  did  not  reply,  but  bent  her  burning  face 
over  her  work.  She  felt  ashamed  to  send  for 
Doctor  Richard  without  cause,  and  she  longed 
to  do  so,  yet  did  not  dare  to  indulge  that  long- 
ing. For  suppose  it  should  affront  him  to  be 
disturbed  from  his  reading  ?  A  while  ago  she 
had  stood  at  the  window  and  looked  down  the 
street,  and  she  had  seen  a,  light  burning  in 
Doctor  Richard's  casement ;  sure  proof  that  he 
was  within.  What  right  had  they  to  intrude 
on  his  solitude?  But  Mrs.  Courtenay  could 
be  wilful  when  she  chose ;  she  now  persuaded 
herself  that  she  was  very  unwell  indeed,  and 
that  it  was  quite  unkind  of  Dora  not  to  send 
for  Doctor  Richard,  and  what  she  thought  she 
said.  Thus  urged,  Dora  hesitated,  then  at 
length  yielded. 

Madame  Bertrand  was  much  amazed  at  Mrs. 
Courtenav's  sudden  illness;  but  obligingly 
went  to  fetch  Doctor  Richard  at  once,  whilst 
Dora  sat  in  her  vacant  chair.  She  wanted  to 
see  Doctor  Richard  before  he  went  up-stairs, 
and  to  make  some  apology  for  thus  disturbing 
him.  But  there  was  no  need  to  do  so.  Ma- 
dame Bertrand  came  back  alone.  The  house 
was  locked  up — Doctor  Richard  was  gone. 

"  And  when  he  goes  away,"  added  Madame 
Bertrand,  "  it  is  for  days  and  weeks." 

"  Then  how  do  his  patients  manage  ?  " 

"  He  has  no  regular  patients,"  replied  Ma- 
dame Bertrand.  "  My  impression,"  she  con- 
fidentially continued,  "  is,  that  he  goes  about 
the  country  bleeding,  extracting  teeth,^and  so 
on  ;  and  when  he  has  made  a  little  money,  he 


DR.  RICHARD  AXD  THE  UNFORTUNATE  CHILD. 


75 


comes  back  here  and  buys  a  heap  of  rubbish 
with  it." 

Dora  laughed  at  tbis  vision  of  an  itinerant 
doctor,  and  went  bacli  to  her  mother,  who 
looked  much  injured  on  learn mg  that  Doctor 
Richard  had  probably  left  Eouen. 

Days  passed  on,  and  he  did  not  return. 
Dora  asked  Monsieur  Merand  if  it  was  Doctor 
Richard's  habit  to  forsake  his  patignts  thus 
without  warning. 

"  Patients ! — he  has  none.  Besides,"  he 
tapped  his  forehead — "  hem  !  you  know." 

"  Indeed  I  know  nothing  of  the  kind,"  re- 
plied Dora,  gravely ;  "  and  if  I  thought  so. 
Doctor  Richard  should  certainly  not  attend  on 
my  mother." 

Monsieur  Merand  looked  alarmed. 
"  Do  not  tell  him  I  said  so ! "  he  exclaimed, 
hastily ;  "  I  do  not  wish  to  injure  him,  poor 
fellow  !     He  wants  all  the  money  he  can  earn. 
He  is  as  poor  as  Job,  you  know." 

He  stared  at  Dora  as  if  to  see  the  effect  his 
words  produced  upon  her.  To  all  seeming 
they  produced  none.  She  went  away,  looking 
rather  pensive ;  but  no  other  expression  save 
that  of  thoughtfulness  appeared  on  her  face. 

Two  days  later,  however,  Dora  came  home 
looking  so  bright  and  gay,  that  Mrs.  Courtenay 
cried — 

"My  dear,  what  •has  happened?  Are  the 
Redmore  Mines  coming  up  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  a  child  was  run  over,  and — " 
"  My  goodness  !  is  that  why  you  look  so  de- 
lighted ?  " 

Dora  blushed,  and  Mrs.  Luan  stared  at  her. 
*'  Monsieur  Merand  wants  a  new  drawing," 
said  Dora,  apologetically,  "and  as  I  was  talk- 
ing to  him  Doctor  Richard  came  in  carrying  a 
poor  little  thing  that  had  just  been  run  over. 
I  helped  him  to  undress  it ;  for  the  child  has 
got  an  untidy  mother,  and  he  had  pricked  him- 
self awfully  with  the  pins.  I  also  assisted  in 
bandaging  its  poor  little  leg ;  but  I  did  little 
good  there,  for  Doctor  Richard  said  I  was  no 


heroine,  after  all.     I  know  I  was  as  pale  as  a 
ghost." 

"You  are  not  pale  now,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Luan. 

"  No,  I  came  home  so  fast,  mamma ! "  she 
added,  turning  to  her  mother.  "  Doctor  Rich- 
ard will  look  in  upon  you  this  evening." 

"Who  wants  him?"  almost  angrily  said 
Mrs.  Luan. 

"Aunt,  why  do  you  dislike  Doctor  Rich- 
ard?" asked  her  niece.  "I  wish  you  had 
seen  how  kind  and  tender  he  was  with  the 
child  ;  and  when  I  got  her  to  tell  me  her  name 
and  abode,  and  he  went  off  with  her  in  a  cab. 
Monsieur  Merand  said  to  me,  '  Do  you  know 
why  he  does  not  send  that  object  to  the  hos- 
pital ? — because  he  means  to  feed  as  well  as 
cure  it.'  " 

"  What  right  has  he  to  give  away  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Luan,  still  gloomy.  "  He  is  too  poor  to 
give." 

"  The  poor  give  more  away  than  the  rich," 
rather  indignantly  said  Dora. 

Mrs.  Luan's  answer  was  to  take  off  her  cap 
and  fling  it  on  the  sofa. 

"  How  often  she  does  that  now !  "  thought 
Dora.  "  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  mention  it  to 
Doctor  Richard  ?  " 

But  another  of  the  self-woven  links  of  fate 
was  around  her,  for  on  reflection  she  resolved 
to  be  silent. 

"  We  shall  wait  tea  for  Doctor  Richard," 
said  Mrs.  Courtenay.  Dora  assented,  and 
Mrs.  Luan  went  and  put  on  her  cap  and  looked 
sulky. 

The  evening  was  a  warm  one,  and  Dora 
went  and  sat  by  the  open  window.  A  ftiint 
breeze  came  from  the  river  up  tlie  quiet  street, 
which  seemed  to  sleep  in  gray  shadow.  How 
calm  all  these  ancient  houses  looked  in  their 
decaying  age ! — how  pathetic  in  its  way  was 
that  bit  of  green  up  amongst  the  buttresses  of 
tlie  poor  old  church  crumbling  away  to  ruin, 
with   these   bright   flowers   and    that  joyous 


76 


DOEA. 


vine  growing,-  as  it  were,  ont  of  its  stone 
heart ! 

"  Poor  thing ! "  thought  Dora,  with  a  sort 
of  pity,  "  it  does  its  best  to  be  beautiful  to 
the  last !  I  wonder  how  it  looked  on  the  day 
of  its  consecration  five  hundred  years  ago, 
Avhen  it  was  first  opened  to  human  worship  ? 
It  was  bright  and  strong  and  new  then.  Every 
one  of  its  outlines  was  sharply  chiselled ; 
every  one  of  its  ornaments  was  painted  in 
gaudy  blue,  deep  violet,  strong  red,  or  pure 
gold.  Doctor  Richard,  I  remember,-  told  me 
once  we  can  have  no  idea  of  the  revel  of  color 
in  those  mediaeval  times.  We  are  too  apt  to 
fancy  them  gray  and  stern  as  they  look  to  us 
now,  through  the  dimness  of  so  many  hundred 
years." 

Her  thoughts  had  gone  thus  far  when  the 
sound  of  a  step  up  the  street  made  her  look 
down.  She  saw  Doctor  Richard  coming  slow- 
ly, and  as  his  look  was  never  once  raised  to 
the  window,  she  could  scrutinize  him  as  closely 
as  she  pleased.  He  looked  pale  and  some- 
what worn. 

"He  has  had  trouble,"  thought  Dora;  "but 
what  trouble  ?  His  carriage  is  not  erect  and 
free  as  it  used  to  be." 

"  I  wish  Doctor  Richard  would  come,"  a 
little  querulously  said  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  I  con- 
fess I  want  my  tea." 

"  He  is  coming,  mamma,"  answered  Dora, 
leaving  the  window. 

They  soon  heard  him  talking  below  to  Ma- 
dame Bertrand,  who  in  a  loud,  plaintive  voice 
informed  him  that  she  had  been  dreadfully  ill 
during  his  absence. 

"  Such  pains  as  she  had  had  in  all  her 
limbs !  "  Then  followed  a  separate  descrip- 
tion of  each  particular  pain,  after  which  came 
Doctor  Richard's  prescription, 

"  Madame  Bertrand  is  a  very  good  sort  of 
woman,"  superciliously  said  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
"  but  she  docs  take  liberties.  To  think  of  her 
keeping  Doctor  Richard  in  that  way  ! " 


Doctor  Richard's  entrance  put  an  end  to  the 
cfMse  of  her  displeasure. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Doctor  Richard  !  " 
she  cried  warmly;  "I  was  so  sorry  .you. were 
away — and,  goodness  me  !  where  have  you 
been  all  this  time  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  the  most  innocent 
curiosity  beaming  in  her  face. 

"  I  have  been  in  the  country  with  one  of  my 
patients,"  he  replied  quietly. 

"  Then  he  has  patients,"  thought  Dora. 

"  Is  it  pretty  about  there  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay— "  I  mean  the  landscape,  you  know." 

Doctor  Richard  smiled. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  pretty  according  to 
the  present  day's  idea  of  beauty  ;  for  I  need 
scarcely  tell  you,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  that  the 
beauty  of  a  landscape  is  as  much  subject  to  the 
laws  of  fashion  as  a  lady's  dress." 

"  Dear  me  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  amazed  ; 
"  I  never^knew  that ! " 

"  It  is  a  fact,  I  assure  you,"  he  gravely  re- 
plied; "Switzerland  and  the  Highlands  are 
going  down,  like  Byron's  poetry.  The  fast 
generation  which  is  coming  on  will  probably 
call  Mont  Blanc  an  old  impostor — I  use  a  mild 
word — and  scorn  the  Trosachs." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  admire  them  much  my- 
self," confidentially  said  Mrs.  Courtenay — "not 
that  I  ever  saw  them,  I  confess,"  she  frankly 
added. 

"  To  see  is  by  no  means  necessary  for  admi- 
ration or  dislike,"  returned  Doctor  Richard, 
with  unmoved  gravity,  "  since  either  is  a  mat- 
ter of  fashion.  The  fact  is,  the  sublime  will 
soon  be  pronounced  a  bore.  We  are  getting 
tired  of  it.  Even  the  Romans  got  wearied  of 
their  classical  landscape,  and  one  of  their  latter 
poets  complained  that  he  knew  the  woods  of 
Mars  and  the  cave  of  Vulcan  as  well  as  his 
own  house.  We  are  in  the  same  predicament. 
We  know  it  all  too  well." 

"  Is  commonplace  so  old,  Doctor  Richard  ?  " 
asked  Dora,  with  a  merry  laugh. 


VALUE  OF  DORA'S  DRAWINGS. 


77 


"  Do  not  laugh  at  it,  Miss  Courtenay.  Com- 
monplace is  one  of  the  powers  that  be,  and 
will  make  you  rue  it." 

Doctor  Richard  spoke  in  a  tone  of  grave  re- 
buke, which  roused  Dora's  mirth  anew. 

"  Dora  has  a  horror  of  commonplace,"  re- 
marked Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  Such  a  charming 
man  as  Mr.  Brown  was,  and  he  admired  Dora 
so  much  ;  but  she  thought  him  commouplace." 

"  And  was  he  not  revenged  upon  Miss  Cour- 
tenay ?  "  asked  Doctor  Richard,  without  no- 
ticing the  blush  which  this  indiscreet  revela- 
tion brought  up  to  Dora's  cheek. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  innocently  answered  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay ;  "  be  was  our  banker,  and  he  took  all 
our  money." 

"  The  thief! "  said  Mrs.  Luan.  "  It  was  her 
money  he  wanted  !  " 

"  Oh !  but  he  did  admire  Dora,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  a  little  jealously.  "He  said  her 
hair  was  like  dark  gold ! " 

Dora  shook  her  head,  and  a  meaning,  half- 
rueful,  half-comic,  passed  across  her  expressive 
face. 

"  I  am  afi'aid  the  gold  he  admired  was  more 
substantial  than  that  which  Nature  has  given 
me ! "  she  said.  "  At  all  events,  not  feeling 
sure  of  obtaining  the  one,  he  took  care  to  se- 
cure the  other." 

"  The  thief  I  "  said  Mrs.  Luan  again. 

Dora  laughed,  and  her  clear,  ringing  laugh 
showed  how  far  all  thought  of  care  was  from 
her  just  then. 

"  He  has  done  me  good  service,  aunt,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  for  him  I  should  never  have  known 
I  was  a  httle  bit  of  a  genius  in  the  way  of 
drawing.  Oh !  Doctor  Richard,"  she  added, 
suddenly  becoming  grave,  and  fastening  an 
earnest  look  on  his  face,  "  I  do  wish  you  would 
tell  me  the  truth — I  do  not  mean  the  polite 
truth,  but  the  whole  truth — about  these  draw- 
ings of  mine.  It  seems  to  me  at  times  that  I 
must  be  laboring  under  a  pleasant  delusion. 
Here  am  I  earning  plenty  of  money,  and  all 


for  such  commonplace  performances.  It  is 
incredible." 

Xow,  neither  Mrs.  Courtenay  nor  Mrs.  Luan 
liked  this  imprudent  speech,  and  neither  gave 
Doctor  Richard  time  to  reply. 

"  My  dear,  you  draw  beautifully,"  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

"  Monsieur  Meraud  does  not  give  you  half 
enough,"  said  Mrs.  Luan ;  "  a  cheat,  like  the 
rest  of  them.  I  hate  the  Frciftli !  "  she  heart- 
ily added. 

"  You  hate  the  French !  "  cried  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. 

"  Mamma ! "  implored  Dora. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  magnanimous,  and  made 
a  sign  implying  that  she  would  take  no  notice 
of  the  insult. 

"  Do  tell  me  the  truth.  Doctor  Richard,"  re- 
sumed Dora.  "  What  are  my  drawings  worth  ? 
You  know.  Do  tell  me  how  far  I  can  rely,  for 
instance,  on  my  talent  as  a  means  of  support." 

She  spoke  very  gravely,  and  leaning  back  in 
her  chair,  looked  with  rather  sad  earnestness 
at  Doctor  Richard.  Now,  Doctor  Richard,  who 
was  usually  so  gay,  so  composed,  so  much  of  a 
man  of  the  world,  for  once  looked  thoroughly 
disconcerted. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  be  said,  trying 
to  rally,  "the.tei-ms  Monsieur  Merand^  gives 
you  are  a  test  of  the  value  of  your  drawings. 
That  you  draw  well,  very  well,  I  have  often 
told  you,  and  I  say  so  again." 

He  spoke  so  emphatically  that  a  bright, 
happy  blush  stole  over  Dora's  face,  and  made 
it  as  fresh  and  glowing  as  a  young  Aurora's. 
If  Doctor  Richard  had  been  more  polite  than 
truthful,  he  was  rewarded  for  his  sin  by  so  ra- 
diant a  smile,  and  a  look  so  bright  that,  whilst 
they  lasted,  they  made  Dora's  countenance  the 
most  bewitching  he  had  ever  seen.  Joy,  not 
vanity,  innocent  triumph,  did  that  beaming 
face  express,  till,  as  if  ashamed  of  her  own 
gladness,  Dora  tried  to  laugh  it  off  by  saying: 

"  Your  verdict  is  so  fiivorable.  Doctor  Rich- 


78 


DORA. 


ard,  that  I  will  believe  every  word  of  it,  and 
seek  to  know  no  more.  And  now,  do  tell  us 
something  about  your  little  patient." 

There  was  not  much  to  tell,  but  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  uttered  little  screams  of  horror,  and 
little  screams  of  relief,  according  as  Catherine's 
state  was  described ;  and  Dora  listened  and 
thought  Doctor  Richard's  conversation  delight- 
ful, and  without  saying  anything  about  it 
at  home,  called  on  the  Injured  child  the 
next  morning,  on  her  way  to  the  Picture- 
gallery. 

Catherine,  who  had  a  temper  of  her  own, 
was  in  a  towering  passion,  and  screaming  at 
the  pitch  of  her  shrill  voice,  when,  after  cross- 
ing a  damp  court-yard,  Dora  entered  the  chill 
and  dark  room  in  which  Catherine's  mother 
lived.  The  child  was  kicking  violently  in  her 
bed — kicking  is  one  of  the  infantine  protests 
most  in  use  in  every  country ;  her  mother 
vainly  tried  to  soothe  her,  and  Doctor  Richard 
stood  looking  on  helplessly  with  a  linen  band- 
age in  his  hand,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
the  bright  face  of  Dora  appeared  amongst  them. 

"  Some  good  angel  sent  you  to  tame  this 
little  lioness  !  "  said  Doctor  Richard,  gayly ; 
"  now  we  shall  get  on." 

Dora  smiled  and  looked  doubtful ;  but  moth- 
ers cannot  always  charm  their,  own  children, 
and  there  is  a  sweet  and  natural  freemasonry 
between  youth  and  childhood.  Dora  had 
scarcely  sat  down  by  Catherine,  and  taken  her 
hand,  when  the  child  ceased  crying,  stared, 
and  finally  smiled. 

"  You  are  accustomed  to  children,"  said 
Doctor  Richard,  with  a  keen  look. 

"Not  at  all." 

"A  natural  gift,  then.  Yes,  children  are 
wonderful  physiognomists." 

His  look  rested  on  her  bright  face  with 
that  complacency  which  such  bright  faces  as 
hers  ever  inspire.  "  Am  I  getting  vain  ?  " 
thought  Dora,  ashamed  at  the  glow  of  pleasure 
which  overspread  her  countenance.    "  Granted 


that  he  admires  me,  need  I  be  any  the  prouder 
for  it  ?  " 

Oh!  if  wisdom  would  but  come  at  our  call, 
or,  what  would  often  be  as  great  a  boon,  if  a 
truer  and  a  keener  knowledge  of  our  inner  self 
than  we  have  were  granted  to  us  in  the  crisis 
of  existence !  If  we  could  know  the  why  and 
wherefore  of  much  that  we  care  not  perhaps 
to  scrutinize  too  closely,  and  scan  our  own 
springs  of  feeling  and  action  as  they  rise  within 
us — if  we  could  do  all  this,  how  different  a 
lot  might  be  ours  !  But  there  is  a  languid 
pleasure  in  ignorance.  To  see  through  a 
mist,  to  hear  as  in  a  dream,  to  be  borne  down 
the  tide  of  life,  and  idly  played  with  by  its 
waves,  instead  of  bravely  swimming  our  way 
to  shore  against  them — all  these  things  are 
fraught  with  a  perilous  sweetness.  Happy,  but 
surely  few,  are  they  who  know  how  to  resist 
that  seducing  torpor  ere  it  be  too  late  to  re- 
pel it.  Some  forewarning  Dora  felt,  however, 
for  after  putting  on  the  bed  of  the  little 
sufferer  the  sweetmeats  she  had  brought  it, 
she  rose  to  go.  Doctor  Richard  looked  in- 
jured. 

"  Will  you  not  stay  and  manage  her  whilst 
I  dress  her  leg  ?  "  he  asked. 

Thus  adjured,  Dora  remained.  Doctor 
Richard  expressed  himself  highly  , satisfied 
with  the  state  of  the  injured  iimb. 

"  I  dare  say  the  little  creature  will  be  able 
to  get  into  mischief  again,"  he  said,  gayly; 
"  andof  course  she  will  do.  so,  with  that  care- 
less mother  of  hers.  Pity,"  he  thoughtfully 
added,  "  one  cannot  stop  the  growth  of  some 
children,  put  them  in  cages,  and  hang  them 
up  like  canary  birds.  Look  at  this  child,  Miss 
Courtenay — she  is  lovely,  with  delicate,  re- 
fined features,  and  if  her  great-great-ancestor 
had  only  been  a  baker,  or  a  butler,  or  a  groom 
in  William  the  Conqueror's  train,  we  should 
now  have  her  portrait  in  a  book  of  beauty, 
and  be  told  in  the  letter-press  how  the  in- 
fantine features,  etc.,  of  the  honorable  Adclina 


HER  VISIT   TO  LITTLE   CATHERINE. 


79 


Fitz-Norman,  etc.,  were  the  purest  model  of 
the  Anglo-Norman  type  so  remarkable  in  the 
English  aristocracy,  etc.  I  am  really  sorry  I 
am  not  acquainted  with  this  young  lady's 
Scandinavian  pedigree.  For  all  we  know,  she 
may  be  a  lineal  descendant  of  Rollo  himself. 
I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  a  man  of  in- 
satiable curiosity,  Miss  Courtenay,  but  lost 
pedigrees  are  one  of  my  torments.  I  believe 
in  race,  in  the  transmission  of  form  and  fea- 
ture, of  mind,  and  of  certain  defects  and  quali- 
ties. Now,  I  want  to  know  what  has  become, 
for  instance,  of  the  descendants  of  the  Scipios, 
the  Gracchi,  the  Julii,  and  tutti  quanti  of  those 
famous  old  Romans  who  are  the  misery  of  our 
childhood.  I  want  to  know  it,  for  I  owe  them 
a  grudge,  and  should  like  to  pay  it  out.  But 
a  Barbarian  tide,  leaving  behind  it  an  endless 
Gothic  sea,  has  swept  away  every  sure  token 
of  the  past.  It  is  impossible  to  doubt  but 
that  some  of  those  renowned  families  still 
flourish — only  where  are  they  ?  Blood  of  in- 
estimable value  flows  in  their  veins,  but  this 
rare  treasure  not  being  apprehensible  by  any 
of  our  senses,  its  possessors  live  and  die  un- 
conscious of  their  own  greatness.  I  always 
felt  convinced  that  my  washerwoman  in  Rome 
had  been  an  empress — I  mean  in  the  person 
of  one  of  her  ancestors,  for  the  transmigration 
of  souls  is  not  one  of  my  doctrines — and  that 
Benedetto,  the  facchino,  was  a  remote  cousin 
of  Catiline's.  He  had  the  man's  audacious 
subtlety,  even  as  he  had  his  features.  Un- 
lucky wretch  !  he  had  no  knowledge  of  his  il- 
lustrious ancestry !  I  had  a  great  mind  to 
enlighten  him,  but  forbore,  lest  I  should  ren- 
der him  too  much  dissatisfied  with  his  humble 
lot ;  for,  you  see,  I  can  temper  my  fancies  with 
a  certain  amount  of  prudence,  Miss  Courtenay." 
Doctor  Richard  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
child's  bed  as  he  spoke  thus,  with  much  com- 
posure and  his  usual  fluency.  Dora,  leaning 
back  in  her  chair  with  her  portfolio  on  her 
knees,  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 


"  He  must  have  some  little  income,"  she 
thought,  "  some  slender  provision  between 
him  and  want.  The  tone  and  substance  of 
his  remarks — and  how  strangely  he  docs  talk! 
— both  tell  of  leisure.  I  believe  he  likes  his 
profession;  but,  poor  fellow,  I  fear  it  does 
not  like  him." 

Spite  the  patient  in  the  country,  Dora  did 
not  think  Doctor  Richard  a  busy  or  a  prosperous 
man.  He  had  been  with  the  child  before  she 
came,  he  stayed  when  she  now  rose  to  go,  and 
she  had  scarcely  been  an  hour  in  the  picture- 
gallery,  when  Doctor  Richard  stood  behind  her 
chair.  He  did  not  remain  long,  however ;  he 
had  to  go  and  read  in  the  library,  he  said. 

"  I  want  to  get  the  song  of  Roland,"  he  in- 
formed Dora,  "  I  want  to  get  back  to  Ro- 
mance and  Roncevaux,  and  the  mighty  horn 
and  Durandal,  the  heroic  sword,  and  Oliver 
and  Ganelon,  and  above  all,  to  that  grand 
death-scene,  when  Archbishop  Turpin  blesses 
the  dead  and  dying  heroes,  and  then  dies  him- 
self, leaving  Roland,  as  was  but  fitting,  to  die 
last,  with  all  these  noble  knights  lying  around 
him.  Do  you  read  old  French,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay ?  No !  what  a  pity.  There  are  some 
rare  treasures  here." 

Now,  Dora,  being  but  mortal,  thought  she 
could  give  Doctor  Richard  a  little  useful  hint 
toward  practical  wisdom. 

"  I  must  work,  not  read,"-  she  said,  de- 
murely. 

"  Work,"  good-humoredly  replied  Doctor 
Richard,  "  js  one  of  the  modern  mistakes.  We 
are  born  to  be  as  well  as  to  act,  and  thinking 
is  one  of  the  many  forms  of  action,  whatever 
matter  of  fact  may  say.  So  I  keep  to  my 
creed,  and  venture  to  blame  yours." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  do  read,"  said  Dora,  bhisliing ; 
"  but  I  have  little  time  and  few  books.' 

"  Then,  as  I  have  the  command  of  a  large 
lil)rary,  allow  me  to  lend  you  some.  You  will 
find  the  catalogue  at  Madame  Bcrtraud's,  and 
can  mark  the  volumes  you  prefer." 


80 


DOEA. 


Dora  looked  so  happy  as  slie  turned  round, 
that  Doctor  Eicbard  exclaimed  gayly, 
"  Come,  you  are  a  reader,  after  all !  " 
But  he  gave  her  no  time  to  stammer  her 
thanks  ;  before  they  were  half  uttered  he  was 
gone. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  catalogue  was  waiting  for  Dora  on  Ma- 
dame Bertrand's  table  when  she  went  home. 
"How  kind  he  is  !  "  she  thought ;  but  to  her 
sense  of  that  kindness  succeeded  surprise  when 
on  looking  over,  the  catalogue  she  saw  how 
valuable  and  extensive  a  collection  was  thus 
placed  at  her  command.  Doctor  Eichard 
seemed  to  know  no  one  in  Eouen  ;  this  library 
must  belong  to  his  patient  in  the  country. 
But  that  patient  did  not  seem  to  take  up  much 
of  Doctor  Eichard's  time. 

Early  though  it  was  when  Dora  called  on 
Catherine  the  next  morning,  Doctor  Eichard 
was  already  with  the  child.  He  was  alone 
with  her  too,  and  pulling  the  struig  of  a  little 
pasteboard  puppet  to  amuse  her.  He  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  door,  and  did  not  see 
Dora. 

"  Faster !  "  said  Catherine,  who  lay  in  her 
bed  looking  on  gravely  at  Doctor  Eichard's 
performance^—"  do  it  faster." 

"  So,"  suggested  Doctor  Eichard,  giving  the 
figure  such  a  jerk,  that  its  legs  and  arms  both 
shot  out  in  horizontal  directions,  "  is  that 
right?" 

"  No,"  was  Catherine's  peevish  reply,  and 
she  turned  ber  head  aside  and  shut  her  eyes. 

Dora  now  approached,  and  Doctor  Eichard 
turned  round  and  saw  her. 

"Good-morning,  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said, 
gravely  ;  "  you  find  me  verifying  the  truth  of 
that  saying,  uttered  l:)y  a  woman  of  genius, 
that  we  are  all  born  kings.  This  young  lady, 
I  can  assure  you,  is  bcmi  a  queen.  I  offered 
to  stay  with  her  whilst  her  mother  went  out 


on  some  necessary  errand,  and  all  the  return 
I  have  got  for  my  kindness  is  that  she  has 
neither  screamed,  nor  kicked,  nor  attempted 
to  bite.  In  all  else  I  have  been  feated  with 
the  most  absolute  contempt.  Well,  well,"  he 
added,  sitting  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
and  looking  down  kindly  on  the  little  creature, 
who  still  kept  her  eyes  shut,  "  this  brief  roy- 
alty is  the  compensation  granted  by  Nature  for 
all  the  future  maltreatment  of  society.  And 
after  all.  Miss  Courtenay,  is  not  life  full  of 
such  atonements?  My  belief  is,  that  the 
'Arabian  Nights,'  for  instance,  and  all  such 
stories  of  enchantment  and  buried  treasure, 
were  meant  to  charm  the  poor  man  into  a 
more  patient  endurance  of  his  barren  life.  It 
is  glorious  to  finger  diamonds  and  pearls,  and 
have  the  wealth  of  an  emperor,  even  though 
it  be  but  for  a  moment.  But  the  most  glori- 
ous bit  of  all  is,  to  be  Haroun-al-Easchid — to 
go  about  the  streets  of  Bagdad  at  night  with 
Giafar  and  Mesrour,  and  set  every  wrong  right 
again — to  give  a  bastinado  to  this  man,  and  a 
purse  of  gold  to  t'other  one.   Happy  Caliph  ! " 

"  The  '  Arabian  Nights '  are  amongst  the 
books  you  so  kindly  offered  to  lend  me,"  said 
Dora ;  "  and  I  confess  that,  not  having  read 
them  shice  I  was  a  child,  I  have  asked  for 
them." 

"  And  for  Macchiavel's  '  Prince  ?  ' "  he  said, 
glancing  over  the  list  she  handed  him.  "  Do 
you  really  wish  for  that  book,  Miss  Courte- 
nay ?  "     He  looked  up  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  I  do,"  frankly  answered  Dora  ;  "  Mr.  Eyan 
would  never  let  me  read  it.  He  would  not 
help  to  ruin  my  political  principles,  he  said ; 
and  I  confess  that  famous  book  has  all  the 
charm  of  forbidden  fruit  for  me." 

"  You  shall  have  it.  I  shall  play  the  part 
of  serpent  in  this  temptation,  since  you  are  so 
willing  to  be  Eve.  But  you  will  be  disap- 
pointed, for,  woman-like,  I  dare  say  you  will 
run  away  with  your  first  impression.  And 
yet,  you  see,  this  Macchiavel  deserves  consid- 


MRS.   LUAN'S  SUSPICIONS, 


81 


eration.  He  was  one  of  the  few  pitchers  who 
go  to  the  well  and  do  not  come  back  as  empty 
as  they  went.  But  for  all  that  you  will  be 
disappointed." 

"  I  am  not  such  a  girl,  nor  yet  so  ignorant 
a  girl  as  Doctor  Richard  imagines,"  thought 
Dora,  a  little  displeased.  "  I  suppose  he  con- 
siders Macchiavel's  pitcher  too  full  for  me.  I 
require  something  more  readable — something 
that  will  do  between  the  last  sweet  crochet- 
stitch  or  the  new  quadrille.  Paul  was  not 
so.  He  thought  nothing  above  or  beyond  his 
sister." 

Unconscious  of  offence,  Doctor  Richard  once 
more  devoted  his  attention  to  Catherine,  who 
had  opened  one  eye,  then  the  other,  and  who 
finally  uttered  an  imperious  "  Give  it  to  me," 
referring  to  the  puppet. 

Whilst  he  was  engaged  with  the  child,  Dora 
rose  to  go. 

"  You  leave  me  to  my  fate ! "  be  said,  re- 
proachfully. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  smiling,  "I  do  ;  " 
and  she  went  thinking,  "  Am  I  getting  vain, 
that  I  care  so  much  for  what  Doctor  Richard 
may  care  for  me  ?  " 

Alas !  it  was  not  vanity  that  stung  her 
then.  She  did  not  know  it,  yet  something 
she  vaguely  felt,  for  she  went  no  more  to  see 
the  sick  child  in  the  morning.  She  thus 
missed  meeting  Doctor  Richard,  but  not  hear- 
ing about  him.  Catherine's  mother  was  full 
of  his  praises,  especially  after  he  had  given 
her  ten  francs  for  an  old  cracked  plate  not 
worth  ten  sous.  Dora  sighed  over  Doctor 
Richard's  improvidence.  What  wonder  that 
he  had  not  been  a  successful  man  when  he 
spent  his  time  and  money  thus !  But  she  for- 
got his  sins  the  very  first  time  he  came  to  see 
them.  Her  color  deepened  and  her  eyes  lit  as 
she  heard  his  step  and  voice  coming  up  the 
staircase  one  evening.  Mi-s.  Courtenay  uttered 
a  httle  scream  of  dehght,  and  immediately 

poured  him  out  a  cup  of  tea. 
6 


Doctor  Richard  took  it,  though  he  also  ex 
cused  himself  for  calling  so  late,  but  he  had 
met  Madame  Bertrand,  and  that  lady  bad  told 
him  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  not  quite  well.  But 
Mrs.  Courtenay  was  ill  when  she  pleased,  and 
not  when  it  pleased  other  people  that  she 
should  be  so.  She  looked  affronted  with  Ma- 
dame Bertrand's  officiousncss. 

"  Very  foolish  of  her,"  she  said,  stifBy ;  then 
relaxing  into  her  usual  good-humor,  she  added, 
confidentially,  "  I  was  not  ill.  Doctor  Richard ; 
I  was  only  purring." 

"  Purring  ! "  he  said,  a  little  surprised. 

"  Yes,"  triumphantly  resumed  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay. "  When  people  get  to  my  age  they  take 
to  purring,  Doctor  Richard — that  is  to  say, 
they  like  to  sit  and  muse  and  think  over  by- 
gones, and  close  it  all  with  a  nap  sometimes. 
And  you  will  purr  too  with  time,  and  very  nice 
you  will  find  it.  I  wanted  Dora  to  do  it  the  other 
evening  when  I  could  see  she  felt  dull ;  but 
young  people  are  saucy,  and  so  she  answered 
that  she  was  a  kitten,  and  could  not  purr  yet." 

"But  kittens  do  purr,  Miss  Courtenay,"  ar- 
gued Doctor  Richard,  looking  with  evident 
amusement  at  Dora's  flushed  fiice. 

"  So  I  told  her,"  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with- 
out giving  Dora  time  to  put  in  a  word ;  "  but 
she  is  an  obstinate  girl.  Doctor  Richard.  Purr- 
ing is  too  quiet  for  her,  and  she  says  she 
would  as  soon  be  the  painted  Griselidis  on 
her  bedroom  curtains,  as  sit  and  purr." 

"  But  Miss  Courtenay  sits  long  and  patient- 
ly at  the  Gallery,"  said  Doctor  Richard. 

How  kindly  he  spoke  ! 

"  He  may  be  improvident,"  thought  Dora  ; 
"but  he  is  our  countryman,  we  meet  in  a 
foreign  land,  and  surely  we  may  take  pleasure 
in  his  society,  and  deal  leniently  with  his 
faults ;  these  are  but  the  excesses  of  a  fine, 
generous  nature.  Ah  !  how  delightful  it  would 
be  if  he  would  but  continue  to  come  and  see 
us  every  now  and  then !  His  very  presence 
brings  warmth  with  it." 


82 


DORA. 


Thus  she  thought ;  but  if  there  had  not  been 
a  bandage  over  Dora's  eyes,  she  might  have 
seen  that  the  cordiality  with  which  Doctor 
Richard  was  received  in  their  home  had  gen- 
erated no  confidence  on  his  part.  He  was 
quite  familiar  with  all  their  concerns — of  his 
they  knew  literally  nothing.  Now,  strangely 
enough,  the  first  to  be  struck  with  this  fact 
was  Mrs.  Luan.  The  perception  had  been 
coming  td  her  for  some  time,  everything  she 
now  heard  and  saw  confirmed  it,  and  with  it 
other  suspicions  which  she  had  long  had. 
She  brooded  over  them  in  her  usual  sulky 
silence,  however,  and  went  on  with  her  patch- 
work, seemingly  absorbed  in  it. 

Doctor  Richard  seemed  to  take  particular 
pleasure  in  Dora's  company  this  evening.  She 
felt  happ3',  and  looked  as  bright  as  sunshine. 
The  genial  light  in  her  face  did  Doctor  Rich- 
ard good.  He  had  been  severed  for  some  time 
from  all  pleasant  society,  almost  as  complete- 
ly severed  as  Dora  herself.  So  no  wonder 
that  he  enjoyed  looking  at  the  face  and  listen- 
ing to  the  voice  of  this  radiant  girl.  If  he 
liked  her  society,  his  was  new  to  her,  as,  in- 
deed, it  ever  was,  like  manna  after  the  long 
fast  to  the  Israelites.  It  was  so  pleasant  to 
talk  about  something  beyond  the  common- 
place occurrences  of  daily  life !  Never  did 
danger  and  temptation  wear  a  subtler  guise 
than  did  these.  So  they  talked  of  many 
things.  A  good  deal  of  drawing,  in  which 
Doctor  Diehard  gave  Dora  some  excellent  ad- 
vice ;  a  good  deal  of  music,  with  the  theory 
of  which  he  was  thoroughly  conversant,  and 
more  than  all  of  books,  which  were  evidently 
the  food  of  his  life. 

Now,  perhaps,  because  Dora  took  evidently 
great  pleasure  in  listenmg  to  Doctor  Richard, 
was  her  danger  so  very  plain  this  evening  to 
Mrs.  Luan.  She  watched  him.  He  looked 
very  well.  He  was  attired,  too,  in  a  respect- 
able suit  of  black,  which  Mrs.  Luan  had  not 
given  him  credit  for  possessing.     Altogether 


he  seemed  to  be  enjoying  himself,  and,  as  Mrs. 
Luan  saw,  Dora  engrossed  him  almost  en- 
tirely. As  soon  as  tea  was  over  he  asked  to 
see  her  last  drawing.  She  went  and  fetched 
it  somewhat  diflSdently.  She  had  learned  to 
think  a  great  deal  of,  and,  indeed,  to  dread 
Doctor  Richard's  most  lenient  criticism.  Per- 
haps a  subtle,  unacknowledged  desire  of  pleas- 
ing him  in  everything  might  be  at  the  root  of 
that  feeling.  Doctor  Richard  looked  at  the 
drawing  in  silence — in  silence,  too,  he  gave  it 
back  to  her ;  he  noticed  her  flushed  cheek  and 
troubled  look,  but  her  nervous  little  hands 
shaking  as  she  tied  the  strings  of  the  portfoUo 
he  did  not  see. 

"  It  is  not  good,  is  it  ?  "  asked  Dora,  unable 
to  bear  the  suspense  of  silence. 

"  Far  from  it.  It  is  very  good,  indeed ;  but 
I  am  accustomed  to  that  from  you,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay." 

The  blood  rushed  up  to  her  face  and  dyed  it 
with  the  most  beautiful  rosy  glow,  but  she  bent 
over  the  portfolio,  and  Doctor  Richard  saw 
nothing,  or,  at  least,  he  seemed  to  see  nothing. 

"  But  as  I  looked,"  he  resumed,  "  I  thought 
of  the  paintings  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa — 
something  in  one  of  your  figures  brought  back 
the  whole  spot  to  my  mind  in  a  second ;  and, 
to  be  frank  with  you,  I  was  there,  not  here, 
for  the  time  being." 

"  What  figure  ?  "  quickly  asked  Dora. 

"  That  of  the  youth.  He  is  like  one  of  the 
cavaliers  in  Orgagna's  Triumph  of  Death." 

Dora  looked  pensive. 

"  The  triumph  of  death  ! "  she  repeated  ; 
"  what  can  that  be  like  ?  " 

"  Like  life.  Youths  and  ladies,  with  falcons 
and  dogs,  sit  beneath  orange-trees.  They  have 
been  hunting  and  hawking,  and  they  are  tired. 
A  troubadour  and  a  singing-girl  entertain 
them.  Cupids  are  abroad,  too,  as  they  usu- 
ally are  in  such  company — but  Death  is 
coming — Death,  a  terrible  woman,  with  sharp 
claw^s,  bat's  wings,  and  a  scythe." 


MACCHIAVEL'S   "  PRINCE." 


83 


"  An  impressive  picture,"  said  Dora,  slowly 
— it  seemed  to  be  painted  for  her  on  the  thin 
air  as  she  spoke,  and  it  was  painful,  exquisite- 
ly painful.  The  thought  of  death  was  abhor- 
rent to  her  then,  and  chilled  her  very  heart. 

"  Yes,  impressive  enough,"  was  his  careless 
answer ;  "  but  so  is  that  newspaper,  Miss 
Courtenay.  Take  it  up,  and  you  will  find  its 
births,  marriages,  and  deaths,  as  impressive 
as  any  homily.  Orgagna's  merit  is  that  he 
just  painted  what  he  saw — all  in  his  fresco  is 
real,  save  the  figure  of  Death." 

"When  did  you  see  that?"  asked  Mrs. 
Luan. 

She  so  seldom  spoke,  that  they  all  looked  at 
her.     Doctor  Richard  answered  composedly : 

"  It  was  some  years  ago." 

Dora  rose  and  put  away  her  portfolio,  and, 
as  she  did  so,  she  wondered  what  had  taken 
him  to  Italy. 

Mrs.  Luan  spoke  again. 

"From  what  part  of  Ireland  do  you  come. 
Doctor  Richard  ?  " 

The  question  was  a  natural  one  enough ; 
the  only  wonder  was  it  had  not  been  put  be- 
fore this  evening.  Yet  Dora  saw  just  a  shade 
of  annoyance  cross  Dr.  Richard's  countenance 
as  Mrs.  Luan  spoke. 

"  I  come  from  Kerry,"  he  briefly  replied, 
and  with  less  than  his  usual  courtesy  he 
turned  at  once  from  Mrs.  Luan  to  Dora,  and 
said  quickly,  "We  were  speaking  of  the  Irish 
melodies.  Miss  Courtenay.  Am  I  to  conclude 
that  you  prefer  'Eileen  Aroon'  to  'Grama- 
chree  ? ' " 

" '  Gramachree ! '  "  repeated  Dora,  not  un- 
derstanding at  first. 

"  Yes,  that  fine  melody  to  which  Moore  set 
his  words  of  'The  Harp  that  once  through 
Tara's  Halls.' " 

Mrs.  'Luan  was  decidedly  excited  this  even- 
ing. 

"I  hate  Mr.  Templeraore,"  she  said — "a 
swindler,    a    cheat !     He    cheated   Paul,  he 


cheated  John,  he  cheated  Dora  out  of  Mr. 
Courtenay's  money ! " 

They  all  remained  aghast  at  this  unexpected 
outbreak.  Doctor  Richard  looked  as  sur- 
prised as  a  well-bred  man  ever  allows  himself 
to  look.     Mrs.  Courtenay  spoke  at  length  : 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  it  was  not  cheating." 

"  It  was,"  insisted  Mrs.  Luan,  whose  hands 
shook  over  her  patchwork. 

"  No,  aunt,  it  was  not,"  said  Dora,  quietly ; 
then  turning  to  Doctor  Richard,  she  gave  such 
explanation  as  this  brief  scene  required.  "  An 
uncle  of  ours  left  his  property  to  that  Mr. 
Templemore,  and  though  he  is  not  to  blame, 
there  are  such  painful  recollections  connected 
with  his  name,  that  it  is  never  mentioned 
among  us." 

Doctor  Richard  bent  his  head  in  token  of 
assent,  and  changed  the  subject.  Painting 
had  led  to  questions,  music  to  a  scene — he 
tried  literature. 

"  How  do  you  like  Macchiavel's  '  Prince  ? '  " 
he  asked. 

Dora  gave  him  no  direct  answer,  but  look- 
ing at  him  earnestly,  she  said  : 

"  You  surely  do  not  admire  that  man.  Doc- 
tor Richard  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  do — dear,  casdid  old 
boy  !  Hear  him  on  the  subject  of  Conquest. 
Do  you  wish  to  conquer  a  kingdom.  Miss 
Courtenay  ?  Why,  then,  take  care  to  exter- 
minate the  native  princes  whom  you  rob.  Or 
have  you  injured  your  neighbor  ? — a  common 
case — well,  then,  if  you  cannot  conciliate,  kill 
him  !  When  you  injure  a  man,  do  not  leave 
it  in  his  power  to  be  revenged.  I  declare  I 
admire  the  man  prodigiously.  It  is  quite 
comfortable  to  hear  murder,  robbery,  and  so 
forth,  spoken  of  in  that  calm,  impartial  man- 
ner." 

"  Then  you  do  not  admire  him  ? "  said 
Dora. 

"Not  admire  him! — why,  one  of  his  vol- 
umes is  never  out  of  my  pocket.     I  only  la- 


84 


DORA. 


ment  the  dear,  good-natured  fellow  is  dead, 
and  cannot  write  leaders  in  newspapers,  or 
malie  speeches  in  senates.  The  great  differ- 
ence between  him  and  us  degenerate  moderns, 
you  see,  is  that,  we  have  lost  that  beautiful 
candor  of  his.  Tes,  I  fear  that  is  gone,"  added 
Doctor  Richard,  in  a  tone  of  feeling  regret ; 
"  but,"  he  resumed,  looking  at  Dora  with  a 
smile,  "  I  preach  in  the  desert.  To  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  would  never  have  suggested  that 
you  should  read 'The  Prince.'  It  was  your 
own  desire  which  you  followed,  not  my  advice, 
you  know." 

"  I  hate  Mr.  Templemore,"  said  Mrs.  Luan, 
again ;  "  he  is  a  cheat,  a  swindler,  a  thief ! 
Why  are  we  beggars  and  is  he  rich  ?  " 

"  Aunt ! "  remonstratively  said  Dora,  vei-y 
much  annoyed  at  this  second  unseemly  out- 
break. 

Doctor  Richard  smiled. 

"  That  Templemore  is  a  fool,"  he  said  ;  "  he 
should,  having  injured  Mrs.  Luan,  have  taken 
some  Macchiavcl-like  means  to  pacify  her — 
either  a  handsome  slice  out  of  the  inheritance, 
or  if  that  should  have  been  too  expensive,  a  sed- 
ative, a  cooling  draught  of  some  kind  or  other." 

Now  Mrs.  Luan  did  not  always  understand 
irony,  "being  a  woman  of  slow  literal  mind,  and 
all  she  now  vmderstood  was  that  Doctor 
Richard  recommended  poisoning  her.  She 
could  not  speak,  but  her  features  worked,  and 
her  hands  shook  with  anger.  Perhaps  he  was 
aware  of  these  signs ;  perhaps,  too,  he  felt 
that  he  had  commented  too  freely  on  a  strictly 
private  matter.  At  all  events,  he  looked  at 
his  watch,  and  rose  to  go,  like  one  who  had 
let  an  appointed  hour  slip  bj'. 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  for  a  few  days,"  he 
said,  shaking  hands  with  Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  for 
I  am  going  down  to  the  country  to-morrow  ; 
but  I  trust  to  find  you  still  quite  well  when  I 
return.  If  anything  should  ail  you  in  my  ab- 
sence, let  me  advise  you  to  call  in  Doctor  Le 
Roux." 


He  handed  her  a  card  as  he  spoke.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  looked  at  it  with  childish  curi- 
osity. 

"  I  suppose  he  takes  care  of  your  patients 
in  your  absence  ?  "  she  suggested. 

"  He  would  do  so,"  carelessly  replied  Doc- 
tor Richard,  "  if  I  had  any  patients  to  take 
care  of ;  but,  unluckily,  that  is  not  the  case." 

He  spoke  a  little  recklessly,  as  if  the  matter 
were  one  of  profound  indifference  to  him.  Dora 
looked  at  him  with  involuntary  compassion. 
He  was  more  than  thirty,  and  yet  his  career 
had  done  so  little  for  him.  It  was  a  hard — a 
very  hard  case. 

Doctor  Richard  turned  to  bid  Mrs.  Luan 
adieu,  but  Mrs.  Luan,  probably  to  avoid  shak- 
ing hands  with  him,  had  left  the  room.  Doctor 
Richard  made  no  comment,  and  turned  to  Dora. 
She  had  taken  a  candle  to  light  him  down  the 
dark  staircase.  Madame  Bertrand  was  in  bed, 
and,  moreover,  would  not  have  left  her  com- 
fortable fireside  for  any  such  task.  Doctor 
Richard  went  down  without  saying  a  word, 
but  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

"  Do  you  like  flowers  ?  "  he  asked,  with  his 
hand  on  the  banisters. 

''  Yes,  very  much." 

"  Then  you  will  allow  me  to  bring  you  some 
from  the  country  ?  "  he  said,  quickly.  "  I 
might  have  known  that  you  liked  flowers,"  he 
added,  without  giving  her  time  to  reply;  "but 
the  doubt  on  my  mind  arose  from  the  fact  that 
I  never  see  any  with  you." 

Dora  colored,  then  said,  without  false 
shame : 

"  Flowers — beautiful  flowers  especially — are 
expensive  at  this  time  of  the  year." 

"  Just  so.  Well,  the  gardener  at  ihe  house 
to  which  1  am  going  is  a  very  good  friend  of 
mine,  and  he  shall  give  me  flowers — beautiful 
flowers,  too,  or  I  will  have  none  of  them." 

Dora  colored  again,  with  pleasure  this  time, 
and  she  gave  him  a  happy,  grateful  look.  They 
shook  hands,  and  he  was  gone. 


MISS   COURTENAY'S  LOVE   AND   PIETY. 


85 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  I  -WONDER  where  he  is  gomg,"  thought  Do- 
ra; "  or  where  his  rich  patient  lives  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  how  flushed  you  are  ! "  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  as  her  daughter  entered  the  sitting- 
room  again,  and  put  down  the  light  with  a 
pensive  look.     "  Does  your  head  ache  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  am  only  thinking  how  kind 
Doctor  Richard  is.  He  is  going  to  bring  me 
flowers — beautiful  flowers  fi'om  the  coun- 
try." 

"  He  is  the  very  kindest  man  !  "  cried  Mi's. 
Courtenay,  clasping  her  little  plump  white 
hands,  "  is  he  not,  Mrs.  Luan  ?  " 

Dora  now  perceived  that  her  aunt  had  re- 
turned to  the  sitting-room.  She  saw  too  that 
Mrs.  Luan  looked  herself  again.  Quite  coolly 
she  answered : 

"  I  am  suce  Doctor  Richard  is  married." 

An  earthquake  could  not  have  inflicted  a 
more  fearful  shock  upon  Dora  than  did  these 
words,  nor  one  to  which  every  fibre  of  her  being 
was  more  terribly  responsive.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  floor  shook  beneath  her  feet — as  if  the  room, 
with  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Luan,  went  round 
and  round  before  her  swimming  eyes.  The 
revelation  to  herself  of  her  secret  hopes  and 
wishes  was  both  violent  and  cruel.  One  word 
she  could  not  speak ;  but  she  sat  down  pale, 
breathless,  full  of  terror,  and  covered  with 
shame. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  consternation,  though  not 
equal  to  her  daughter's  in  depth,  was  as  great 
in  extent. 

"  Married ! "  she  said,  in  an  injured  tone, 
which  showed  she  did  not  think  Doctor  Rich- 
ard could  be  guilty  of  such  a  crime ;  '"  I  do 
not  believe  it." 

"  And  I  am  sure  of  it,"  retorted  Mrs.  Luan, 
with  dark  triumph  at  the  sinner's  iniquity. 
"  What  did  he  go  to  Italy  for  ?  Why  did  he 
not  like  to  say  he  came  from  Kerry  ?  Why 
does  he  never  speak  about  himself?    I  am 


sure  he  is  married,  and  that  he  ill-used  his 
wife." 

"  And  I  am  sure  Doctor  Richard  would  ill- 
use  no  one,"  quietly  put  in  Dora.  She  had 
recovered  by  this,  and  though  rather  pale,  was 
perfectly  calm.  "  How  late  it  is ! "  she  added, 
as  the  old  clock  below  struck  the  hour. 

She  left  them  still  looking  very  quiet ;  but 
when  she  had  entered  her  room,  when  she  had 
closed  and  locked  the  door,  and  was  free  from 
intrusion,  she  flung  herself  on  a  chair  near  her 
bed,  and  burying  her  flice  in  her  pillow,  she 
gave  way  to  her  humiliation  and  grief.  She, 
Dora  Courtenay,  a  girl  of  twenty-three,  loved 
this  stranger ! — and  he  might  be  married ! 
She  had  never  thought  of  that — but  had  she 
thought  of  anything  ?  She  had  known  him  a 
few  weeks,  and  how  could  she  dream  of  dan- 
ger? And  there  v/as  nothing  to  justify  this 
terrible  folly.  He  had  been  kind,  he  had  been 
courteous,  he  had  shown  that  he  admired  her, 
but  no  girl  in  her  senses,  and  with  the  least 
experience  of  life,  could  say  that  he  had  be- 
trayed any  of  the  symptoms  of  love.  A  mar- 
ried man  might  behave  to  her  exactly  as  Doc- 
tor Richard  had  behaved.  Kindness,  cour- 
tesy, and  admiration  are  not  prohibited  to  or 
from  the  wedded.  It  was  all  her  folly,  her 
own  miserable  folly.  She  told  herself  so  again 
and  again ;  but  did  it  lessen  the  hardship  of 
her  fiite  that  she  alone  was  to  blame  for  it  ? 
Alas!  the  more- she  looked  into  the  past,  the 
deeper  was  her  sense  of  abasement.  She 
knew  nothing  of  Doctor  Richard,  literally 
nothing.  Of  his  family,  of  his  antecedents, 
of  his  fortunes,  she  was  deeply  ignorant.  He 
might  be  an  adventurer,  one  of  life's  outcasts, 
for  all  Dora  Courtenay  knew.  That  he  was 
poor,  and  led  rather  a  useless,  idle  sort  of 
life,  was  certain.  What  had  brought  him  to 
Rouen?  Debts,  perhaps — debts,  or  iForse. 
Dor^s  heart  sickened  'and  revolted  at  the 
thought.  No,  she  would  believe  nothing 
mean,  nothing  dishonorable  of  him.    The  open 


86 


DORA. 


manlinesri  of  liis  countenance  gave  her  fii-m 
security  against  all  degradation.  That  clear, 
frank  look  was  the  look  of  a  man  without  fear 
or  shame.  But  he  might  be  married,  and  the 
thought  was  misery;  he  might  have  left  his 
wife  in  Italy  or  in  Ireland  —  nay,  he  might 
have  gone  to  see  her  in  the  country.  "  But 
surely  in  that  case  he  would  say  it,"  thought 
Dora;  "it  would  be  neither  honorable  nor 
coui-teous  to  make  a  mystery  of  it.  No,  if  he 
is  married,  his  wife  is  not  here.  I  dare  say  she 
is  in  Ireland."  Suddenly  a  picture  rose  be- 
fore Dora  Courtenay's  eye — a  beautiful,  heart- 
rending picture.  She  saw  a  bright  hearth,  a 
fair  woman,  with  a  child  on  her  knee,  and  Doc- 
tor Richard  smiling  happily.  She  sat  up,  she 
clasped  her  hands  tightly,  she  knit  her  brows 
and  set  her  teeth.  "  I  must  bear  it,"  she 
thought ;  "  I  must.  What  right  have  I  to 
quarrel  with  his  domestic  happiness?  Let 
him  be  married  or  not  married,  what  is  it  to 
me?" 

But  pride  is  a  weak  stay  at  the  best.  That 
spirit  of  defiance  with  which  Dora  uttered  her 
'■  What  is  it  to  me  ?  "  soon  died  away,  and 
left  her  desolate  and  weak.  There  is  a  well 
of  strength,  however,  which  she  knew  of  old. 
To  it  she  now  turned,  asking  the  Divine  Mas- 
ter for  a  cup  of  those  sweet  waters  which  the 
Samaritan  woman  longed  for.  There  were 
many  pious  memorials  in  Dora's  room — many 
signs  of  man's  weakness  and  God's  mercy — al- 
most all  were  also  tokens  of  her  lost  brother's 
love ;  and  as  she  now  looked  at  them,  each 
had  its  own  language.  That  pathetic  little 
image  of  the  child  Jesus  sleeping  on  the  cross 
Paul  had  ])ought  from  an  Italian  boy,  and 
given  her.  That  Saint  Catherine  borne  by 
angels  she  had  found  hanging  by  her  bedside 
on  her  sixteenth  birthday ;  and  that  divine 
bead  OBOwned  with  thorns  she  had  taken  away 
from  Paul's  room  after  his  death.  From  the 
position  of  the  picture,  Dora  had  often  thought 
that  her  brother's  last  look  had  rested  upon 


that  calm,  sorrowful  face— sorrowful  for  man's 
sin,  and  not  for  the  cost  of  redemption.  The 
tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  quivered 
as  sacrifice,  suffering,  death,  and  immortal 
love,  all  thus  admonished  and  condemned  her. 
She  knelt  and  said  her  prayers,  feeling  both 
stricken  and  humbled  by  her  folly,  and  asking 
for  power  to  conquer,  or  for  resignation  to  en- 
dure it,  if  endurance  must  indeed  be  her  lot. 

But  though  prayer  is  ever  heard  in  heaven, 
we  are  not  told  that  it  is  ever  heard  at  once. 
A  long  sleepless  night  did  Dora  spend — long 
and  cruel.  She  could  not  bear  to  go  on  loving 
this  stranger,  and  she  could  not  help  it.  This 
was  her  first  love — the  only  love  she  was  ever 
to  know,  and  it  had  come  to  her,  like  Minerva 
from  the  brain  of  Jove,  full  grown  and  all- 
powerful.  She  tried  to  strive  against  it,  but 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  only  came  out  of 
the  struggle  weak,  helpless,  and  .beaten.  A 
sickening  sense  of  her  powerlessness  stole 
over  her,  then  a  vague,  pitiful,  yearning  hope 
closed  the  long  contest. 

Xever  did  Dora  forget  the  bitter  suspense 
of  the  next  three  days — three  long,  weary 
days  of  impatience  and  heart-sickening  ex- 
pectation. Madame  Bertrand  knew  nothing — 
besides,  Dora  could  put  no  plain  questions, 
and  her  open,  ingenuous  nature  revolted  from 
indirect  inquiry. 

"  Oh  !  if  he  were  but  back  !  "  she  thought — 
"  that  this  wretched  suspense  might  be  over 
— that  I  might  either  be  at  peace  with  my- 
self, or  never  see  him  again  ! " 

At  length  the  hope  of  relief  came.  On  the 
morning  of  the  third  day  Madame  Bertrand 
came  up  with  a  nosegay  of  flowers  so  exquis- 
ite and  so  rare,  that  Dcra  remained  mute  as 
they  were  put  in  her  trembling  hands,  and  Mrs. 
Courtenay  screamed  with  admiration,  whilst 
even  Mi-s.  Luan  stared. 

"  They  come  from  a  conservatory,"  thought 
Dora,  as  she  bent  her  flushed  face  over  them. 
He  might  bcmarried,  but  she  could  not  help 


MRS.   LUAN  MAKES  A  DISCOVERY. 


87 


feeling  happy  at  the  gift.  Tet  she  would  not 
indulge  herself.  She  was  dressed  to  go  out, 
and  she  went,  and  refused  to  linger  and  admire 
these  rare  and  beautiful  flowers.  "I  must 
not,"  she  thought;  and  to  her  mother  she 
said,  "  I  must  work,  you  know." 

She  went  to  her  task,  but  her  mind,  no 
more  than  her  heart,  was  in  it.  She  longed 
for  the  evening.  She  felt  sure  he  would  look 
in,  and  that  Mrs.  Luan  would  question  him, 
and  then a  blank  followed  the  thought. 

"And  then,"  thought  Dora,  after  a  while, 
"  all  will  be  over,  and  I  shall  be  at  rest.  It 
is  impossible  that  I  cannot  conquer  this  mad- 
ness. I  feel  sure  it  is  a  sort  of  madness  and 
no  more.  It  is  impossible  that  I  should  care 
— really  care — for  a  man  of  whom  I  know 
nothing.  I  do  not  believe  it — I  will  not ! 
Besides,  how  can  I,  if  he  is  married  ?  But, 
then,  suppose  he  is  not  ?  " 

Her  hand  slackened  in  its  labor,  her  pencil 
paused,  then  was  still.  Her  heart  beat,  her 
pulses  throbbed.  If  Doctor  Richard  was  not 
married,  might  she  not  hope  that  he  came  to 
her  mother's  house  for  her  sake?  It  was  a 
natural  hope  and  a  natural  conjecture.  The 
young  are  allowed  to  indulge  in  such  thoughts 
and  such  feelings.  Later,  they  are  forbidden, 
and  none  but  the  foolish  can  think  and  feel 
so.  Indeed,  it  is  part  of  the  wisdom  of  age 
to  put  by  and  forget  these  fond  badges  of 
youth.  They  are  things  to  be  pinned  on,  and 
unpinned  again,  and  left  off  early.  The  rosy 
favors  of  love  are  apt  to  fade,  and  the  gay 
colors  of  pleasure  have  but  a  time.  Truly  it 
is  lucky  that  the  old  are  allowed  to  grow  wise, 
to  leave  off  their  follies,  and  deny  them  grave- 
ly. It  would  be  sad  if  Phillis  should  wear  her 
shepherdess's  hat  and  fluttering  ribbons  till 
threescore,  and  if  Corydon  should  pipe  to  his 
sheep  when  the  warm  summer  days  have  for- 
ever gone  by. 

But  Dora's  early  spring  was  scarcely  over, 
and  her  May  was  in  all  its  sweet  fervor.    Love 


to  her  was  a  hope,  a  mystery,  and  a  delight- 
ful promise.  A  poor  life,  a  life  of  toil,  fright- 
ened her  not,  if  this  kind  and  true  companion 
would  but  share  it  with  her.  She  believed 
him  honorable  and  good — what  more  was 
needed  ?  For  that  is  youth's  glorious  privi- 
lege. It  is  equal  to  any  folly  granted,  but 
then  it  comes  short  of  no  heroism,  no  daring, 
no  sacrifice.  For  this,  we  all  love  it,  and  in 
some  sense  we  all  honor  it.  We  look  at  it  aa 
we  might  look  at  some  noble  tree  full  of  the 
sap  of  life,  its  green  boughs  laden  with  flowers, 
and  birds  making  sweet  music  beneath  the 
leaves.  We  know,  indeed,  tliat  they  will  be 
mute  some  day,  for  winter  must  come;  we 
know  that  the  leaves  will  turn  yellow,  and  lie 
dead  on  the  sodden  earth  ;  but  all  the  sweeter 
for  that  knowledge  are  this  f\ur  tree's  brief 
splendor  and  beauty. 

Of  that  brevity  youth  is  as  happily  uncon- 
scious as  the  tree  in  the  forest.  If  its  sacri- 
fices are  to  be  boundless,  so  are  its  loves  to 
be  immortal.  It  was  not  in  Dora's  power  to 
foresee  an  end  to  her  present  fee'ings,  and 
hence,  perhaps,  she  surrendered  herself  to 
dangerous  conjecture.  But  she  could  be  wise 
too,  for  there  is  a  wisdom  which  is  not  the 
fruit  of  experience,  a  wisdom  which  springs 
from  the  habit  of  self-subjection,  and  this  soon 
came  to  the  rescue.  With  a  guilty  start  she 
banished  the  vision  which  turned  the  kind 
and  courteous  visitor  into  a  fond  lover.  No 
modest  girl  who  has  had  the  misfortune  to 
give  her  affection  unsought,  willingly,  and  in 
the  first  bitterness  of  the  discovery,  indulges 
in  such  fancies.  Later  they  may  come  with 
hope,  and  be  cherished,  but  surely  not  at 
first. 

"I  must  work,"  thought  Dora,  resolutely; 
and  she  worked  hard  and  conscientiously,  till 
a  step  behind  her  made  her  cheeks  burn.  She 
knew  well  enough  it  was  Doctor  Richard,  who 
was  coming  to  look  at  her  drawing.  She 
turned  round,  trying  to  look  calm,  and  she 


DORA. 


thanked  bim  for  the  flowers  with  tolerable 
composure. 

"  I  shall  bring  you  more  next  time,"  he 
said,  smiling.  Then  he  asked  after  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

"  She  is  pretty  well,"  replied  Dora,  quickly  ; 
"  but  I  wish  you  would  come  in  this  evening 
and  see  her." 

How  she  hated  herself  for  saying  that ;  but 
she  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  She 
knew  that  if  he  came  Mrs.  Luan  would  surely 
get  the  truth  from  him.  Doctor  Eichard 
promised  to  look  in  readily  enough,  and  he 
proceeded  to  talk  to  her  of  her  drawing.  He 
stayed  long,  advising,  suggesting,  and,  do 
what  she  would,  Dora  felt  happy. 

The  evening  came,  that  evening  which 
Dora  longed  for,  and  with  it  came  Doctor 
Eichard,  pleasant  and  genial.  Mrs.  Luan 
glared  at  him,  but,  contrary  to  Dora's  expec- 
tation, she  was  mute.  Would  she  let  him  de- 
part without  putting  the  momentous  question  ? 
But  when,  in  answer  to  Dora's  thanks.  Doctor 
Eichard  said, 

"  I  told  the  gardener's  wife  to  choose  such 
flowers — " 

"  Your  wife ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Luan,  pre- 
tending to  misunderstand  him.  "  Is  she  in 
France,  Doctor  Eichard  ?  " 

A  deep  silence  followed  this  question. 
Dora's  breath  seemed  gone,  and  she  looked 
furtively  at  Doctor  Richard.  He  colored,  and 
a  few  seconds  elapsed  ere  he  replied. 

"  I  have  no  wife,  Mrs.  Luan. — I  am  a 
widower,"  he  added,  gravely. 

Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  looked  triumphant  for 
a  moment,  now  looked  blank,  and  Doctor 
Eichard,  turning  to  Dora,  continued — 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  bring  my  little  girl 
to  see  you.  Miss  Courtenay,  I  shall  have  her 
in  Rouen  for  a  day  ?" 

Dora  scarcely  knew  what  she  answered. 
She  felt  in  heaven.  She  expected  nothing, 
but  Doctor  Eichard  was  not  a  married  man. 


She  need  feel  no  humiliation,  no  shame.  Her 
reply  seemed  satisfactory,  however,  for  he 
smiled,  and  looked  satisfied ;  whilst  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  though  rather  offended  that  Doc- 
tor Eichard  did  not  want  to  bring  his  little 
girl  to  see  her,  asked  how  old  the  young  lady 
was. 

"  Seven — but  very  delicate,"  he  answered, 
with  a  sigh. 

Dora  felt  full  of  pity,  and  questioned  eager- 
ly. Was  she  tall,  dark,  or  fair,  and  did  she 
speak  French  ?  And  Doctor  Richard,  like 
most  parents,  answered  readily.  Dora  thus 
learned  that  Eva  was  the  child's  name — that 
she  was  tall,  dark,  and  spoke  French  fluently. 

"  And  when  will  you  bring  her  to  us  ?  "  she 
asked. 

He  saw  her  eager  eyes  bent  upon  him  ;  he 
read  desire  in  her  parted  lips,  and  he  smiled 
a  kind,  pleasant  smile. 

"  After  to-morrow,  if  you  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  Doctor,_  what  made  you  call  her  Eva  ?  " 
inquired  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

"  It  was  her  mother's  name." 

A  cloud  came  over  his  face  as  he  spoke, 
which  looked  more  like  the  shadow  of  a  past 
trouble  than  like  the  remembrance  of  a  sor- 
row. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  was  happy  with  his  wife  !  " 
thought  Dora ;  "  perhaps  not,  and  perhaps, 
too,  he  does  not  mean  to  marry  again." 

The  thought  gave  her  no  pain.  To  love  is 
love's  true  happiness,  and,  in  its  early  stage 
at  least,  it  looks  for  none  other.  Delightful, 
therefore,  was  this  evening  to  her.  She  spoke 
little,  but  she  felt  happy ;  and  as  she  felt  she 
looked,  though  she  sat  in  silent  reverie.  She 
tried,  indeed,  to  rouse  herself,  and  at  length 
she  succeeded.  When  she  came  back  from 
the  world  to  which  she  had  been  wandering — 
the  pleasant  world  of  a  girl's  fancies — and 
was  once  more,  both  in  body  and  in  spirit, 
present  in  her  mother's  sitting-room,  she  found 
Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Doctor  Eichard  talkms 


LITTLE  EVA'S  DOLL. 


89 


gayly,  and  Mrs.  Luan  moody  and  sulky.  Doc- 
tor Richard  was  a  free  man — nothing  could 
atone  for  that  calamity.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
looked  at  her  sister-in-law,  then  winked  sig- 
nificantly at  Doctor  Richard,  adding,  in  broken 
words,  which  Mrs.  Luan  was  supposed  not  to 
understand — 

"  Always  was  so — likes  nothing — does  not 
mind  me  now — does  not  know  what  I  am 
talking  of." 

Doctor  Richard  was  of  another  opinion, 
and  he  succeeded  in  changing  the  discourse, 
which  referred  no  more  to  Mrs.  Luan  till  he  left. 

Almost  from  the  first  moment  that  he  had 
mentioned  the  existence  of  his  child,  Dora  had 
heen  full  of  a  project,  which  she  imparted  to 
her  mother  as  soon  as  he  was  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Luan  had  retired  to  her  own  room, 

"  Mamma,"  she  said  rather  eagerly,  "  Doc- 
tor Richard  has  been  very  kind  to  us.  Sup- 
pose I  dress  a  doll  for  Eva — the  handsomest 
I  can  find  ?  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  charmed  with  the  idea, 
and  adde#  confidentially — 

"It  is  to  you  Doctor  Richard  wishes  to 
bring  his  little  girl.  Dora,  depend  upon  it  he 
wants  to  marry  you." 

Dora  turned  crimson,  and  denied  this — but 
faintly. 

"  And  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay ; 
"  but  perhaps  you  do  not  like  him  ?  Then, 
Dora,  do  not  encourage  him.  He  looks  as  if 
he  would  take  such  a  matter  to  heart ;  better 
not  give  the  child  a  doll,  after  all." 

Dora  did  not  think  that  to  give  Eva  a  doll 
was  to  encourage  Eva's  father  in  a  hopeless 
passion ;  and  she  said  so. 

"  And  as  my  white  silk  dress  would  only  get 
yellow  and  old-fashioned,"  she  added,  "I  shall 
cut  it  up." 

"  Cut  up  your  beautiful  silk,  Dora !  " 

"  I  shall  never  wear  it  again  ;  and  I  do  not 
like  dyed  silks.  Besides,  it  is  better  to  save 
money  than  buy." 


Mrs.  Courtenay  gave  in,  but  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  shall  dress  her  like  a  bride,"  resumed 
Dora,  "  with  a  veil  and  orange-wreath." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  screamed  with  delight. 

"  And  she  shall  have  a  train  fiver  so  long, 
and  satin  shoes,  and  white  kid  gloves.  She 
shall  be  the  handsomest  doll  in  Rouen.  I  shall 
go  and  buy  it  to-morrow  morning ;  and,  mam- 
ma, you  will  not  tell  aunt?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  shrewdly  said  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, who  liked  a  conspiracy  of  all  things. 

When  Dora  retired  to  her  own  room,  she 
took  out  the  white  silk  dress,  and  looked  at  it, 
Slie  had  looked  well  in  this  dress,  and  she 
knew  it.  Were  those  days  forever  gone  by  ? 
Was  she  never  to  go  to  a  party  again,  but  to 
spend  Hfe  in  its  present  obscurity  ?  It  really 
was  a  pity  to  cut  it  up ;  but  then  they  could 
not  aiford  to  buy,  and  Doctor  Richard  had  been 
so  kind.  There  was  no  harm,  however,  in 
putting  on  this  doomed  robe  once  more,  and 
seeing  how  she  looked  in  it.  So  Dora  slipped 
it  on,  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  and 
bade  a  sort  of  fai-ewcll  to  life's  vanities  as  she 
saw  her  own  image  there.  It  is  pleasant  to 
look  well — it  is  pleasant  to  wear  silken  gar- 
ments, with  their  folds  to  rustle  as  we  move — 
it  is  pleasant  to  be  clad  in  the  hue  which  suits 
our  youth  and  its  bloom,  both,  alas  !  so  fleet- 
ing ;  but  it  is  scarcely  pleasant  to  do  so  when 
we  feel  that  Pleasure  has  closed  her  gates  upon 
us,  and  will  open  them  no  more. 

"And  yet  why  should  there  not  be  some 
wonderful  story  for  me  too  ?  "  thought  Dora, 
sitting  down  to  muse  over  her  future  ;  "  why 
should  dull  commonplace  be  ray  lot  ?  I  do 
not  feel  as  if  the  straight  and  beaten  road 
were  to  be  mine.  I  seem  to  see  many  winding 
paths  before  me.  It  may  be  an  illusion,  but  it 
is  a  harmless  one,  and  I  will  not  bid  it  begone. 
As  to  the  dress,  I  care  not  for  it." 

She  took  it  off,  and  to  prevent  the  possibility 
of  repentance,  took  two  breadths  out  of  the 
skirt.     This  sacrifice  being  accomplished,  she 


90 


DORA. 


went  to  bed  and  dreamed  of  a  marvellous  doll 
with  a  train  half  a  jard  long.  Early  the  next 
morning,  Dora  went  out.  She  succeeded  in 
finding  such  a  doll  as  she  wanted,  and  brought 
it  home  under  her  cloak,  so  that  Mrs.  Luan 
might  n<rir  see  it.  She  set  about  her  task  at 
once,  and  locked  herself  in  to  prevent  a  sur- 
prise ;  but  Mrs.  Courtenay,  who,  though  she 
liked  a  conspiracy,  did  not  seem  to  understand 
that  secrecy  was  one  of  its  most  necessary  in- 
gredients, came  and  knocked  for  admittance 
every  five  minutes,  "just  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  on."  As  Dora  carefully  locked  the 
door  after  her  mother  every  time  she  thus 
came,  Mrs.  Luan,  had  she  been  an  observant 
person,  could  not  have  failed  detecting  the  ex- 
istence of  a  mystery.  Luckily,  few  things,  un- 
less when  connected  in  a  very  direct  manner 
with  her  concerns,  drew  her  attention,  and  all 
she  thought,  if  she  thought  at  all,  was  that 
Dora  was  engaged  in  some  new  drawing. 

"  What  a  pretty  doll  it  is  !  "  whispered  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  bending  over  the  pillow  on  which 
the  doll  lay  carefully  wrapped  in  tissue  paper ; 
"  and,  oh  !  Dora,  how  it  does  stare  !  " 

This  Mrs.  Courtenay  announced  as  a  de- 
cidedly singular  fact,  and  as  if  the  staring  of 
dolls  were  a  new  discovery  of  hers. 

"Yes,"  gayly  said  Dora;  "it  was  shut  up 
in  a  box,  you  see,  and  having  just  come  out, 
it  is  making  the  best  use  of  its  eyes.  Besides, 
it  is  fresh  from  Germany,  and  has  a  good  deal 
to  learn,  poor  thing!  in  this  new  country. 
Perhaps  it  is  thinking  of  the  Fatherland,  and 
lamenting  the  change  from  the  Rhuie  to  the 
Seine." 

"  And,  oh ! "  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  her 
little  scream,  "  you  have  got  shoes  for  it ! " 
and  she  took  and  twirled  on  her  finger  a  pair 
of  white  satin  bridal  shoes,  beautifully  made. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dora,  looking  at  them  with  a 
little  envious  sigh;  "  I  knew  I  could  not  make 
them  so  well,  so  I  bought  them,  and  stockings 
and  gloves.     The  rest  I  shall  fashion  myself." 


And  very  cleverly  did  Dora  set  about  her 
task.  Her  eye  and  her  taste  were  both  cor- 
rect, and  ere  the  day  was  half  over  the  bride's 
attire  was  nearly  completed. 

"  Is  not  Dora  going  out  to-day  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Luan,  with  some  wonder. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  winked  several  times  very 
fast,  pursed  up  her  Ups,  and  uttered  a  mysteri- 
ous "  No." 

"  What  is  she  doing,  then  ?  " 

"  Nothing  particular,"  replied  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay, whose  tone  implied  that  Dora  was  doing 
something  very  particular  indeed. 

"  Is  she  not;  well  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  Mrs.  Luan,  how  many  questions 
you  do  put  1  Cannot  the  child  stay  within 
without  your  knowing  why  ?  " 

Now,  if  Mrs.  Luan's  inquisitiveness  had  not 
been  stimulated  after  this,  she  should  have 
had  no  such  organ.  But  as  she  did  possess 
some  share  of  this  important  faculty,  she  de- 
termined to  know  what  Dora  was  doing. 
Very  craftily,  however,  did  she  set  about  her 
purpose.  When  Mrs.  Courtenay  leflflthe  room, 
Mi-s.  Luan  went  and  knocked  at  Dora's  door, 
and  Dora,  thinking  it  was  her  mother,  opened 
with  a  chiding  smile. 

"  Is  not  your  mother  here  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Luan. 

"  No,  aunt,"  replied  Dora,  blushing  with 
vexation. 

No  change,  no  emotion,  appeared  on  Mrs. 
Luan's  heavy  face  as  she  withdrew;  but  she 
had  seen  the  doll  standing  with  her  back  to  a 
chair,  her  white  dress  on,  and  the  orange- 
wreath  and  veil  on  the  table;  and  she  was  not 
quite  so  dull  but  that  she  knew  what  this 
meant.  Mrs.  Luan  had  a  spice  of  vindictive- 
ness  in  her  composition.  She  felt  aggrieved 
at  Dora's  daring  act,  and  still  moi'c  aggrieved 
at  having  been  excluded  from  all  knowledge 
of  it.  She  resolved  to  be  revenged,  and 
watched  her  opportunity  so  well,  that  when 
Dora  left  her  room  after  dinner,  Mrs.  Luan 


DR.   EICHAED'S  EVENING  VISIT. 


91 


stole  into  it  unsuspected.  But  in  vain  she 
looked  on  the  bed,  on  the  furniture — the  doll 
was  not  there  ;  in  vain  she  tried  the  drawers, 
Dora  had  locked  them  and  taken  the  key. 
Mrs.  Luan's  homicidal  intentions  against  Eva's 
doll  were  defeated,  and  she  crept  out  of  the 
room  unseen  indeed,  but  none  the  less  sulky 
at  having  been  baffled. 

Doctor  Richard  came  in  the  evening.  He 
had  not  intended  doing  so,  but  he  had  been  to 
the  Gallery,  and  not  seeing  Dora  there,  he 
concluded  that  either  she  or  her  mother  was 
unwell.  He  now  called  to  ascertain  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  suspicions. 

Dora  smiled  demurely  at  his  surprise,  and 
replied  gayly, 

"  No,  I  could  not  go  to-day." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  pursed  up  her  lips  not  to 
laugh,  and  said,  with  a  mysterious  and  puzzled 
assumption  of  clearness, 

"  No,  Dora  could  not  go  to-day." 

"  Dora  was  dressing  a  doll,"  put  in  Mrs.  Luan, 
who  would  not  be  quite  balked  of  her  revenge. 
"A  doll  for  your  little  girl,  Doctor  Richard." 

Doctor  Richard  smiled,  looked  surprised  as 
well  as  pleased,  and  said,  "  Indeed  !  "  whilst 
Dora  uttered  a  remonstrative,  "  Oh,  aunt !  " 
and  tried  not  to  seem  too  much  annoyed. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  her 
indignation. , 

*'  Of  all  talkative  creatures,  Mrs.  Luan,"  she 
said,  austerely,  "  you  are  the  most  indiscreet. 
Tou  might  know  Dora  wanted  to  surprise  her 
young  friend." 

Mrs.  Luan  resorted  to  her  usual  defence, 
and  began  to  buzz. 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  she 
said.  "  The  doll  was  dressed  like  a  bride, 
which  did  not  look  like  a  secret.  At  least,  I 
know  that  when  my  aunt  ran  away  with  Sir 
John  Barry  she  went  in  a  cotton  dress,  in 
order  to  be  taken  for  the  cook.  Though  how 
she  could  be  taken  for  the  cook,  who  was  stout, 
and  forty-five,  I  don't  know." 


"There!  —  there!"  superciliously  replied 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  who  ever  heard  the  like  ? 
Do  you  suppose  we  mean  to  say  the  doll  was 
going  to  contract  a  private  marriage,  or  to  run  ^ 
away  with  any  one,  when  the  orange-wreath 
and  the  veil  tell  as  plainly  as  can  be  that  she 
is  going  off  to  church  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  said  Doctor 
Richard,  pathetically,  "  do  let  me  have  a 
peep  at  the  bride.  I  shall  be  miserable  if  I 
do  not  see  her,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  shall 
not  say  a  word  about  it  to  Eva  !  " 

Dora,  nothing  loath,  rose,  and  went  and 
brought  out  "the  Mariee."  She  placed  her 
standing  safely  against  the  wall,  and  having  set 
her  off  by  putting  a  sheet  of  blue  paper  behind 
her  back,  she  withdrew  several  steps,  and 
looked  rather  anxiously  at  Doctor  Richard's 
dark  face.  This  doll  was  a  very  pretty  one — 
she  had  blue  eyes,  pink  cheeks,  and  red  lips. 
Somewhat  deficient  in  figure  she  had  been, 
but,  thanks  to  Dora's  unscrupulous  skill,  she 
had  now  the  most  delicate  round  w.aist. 
These  "natural"  advantages  were  set  off  by 
the  loveliest  bridal  dress  maiden  ever  wore  on 
her  marriage  morn.  Her  robe  of  long  sweep- 
ing white  silk,  looped  up  in  front  to  show  a 
pair  of  fairy  white  feet,  was  exquisitely  trimmed 
with  tulle  bouillonne,  as  an  article  on  the 
fashions  would  have  said.  A  long  veil,  through 
which  shone  her  fair  hair,  flowed  around  her. 
The  orange-wreath  nodded  over  her  snowy 
brow ;  pearls  gleamed  on  her  plump  white 
neck,  and  were  twisted  in  rows  around  her 
fair  arms.     Doctor  Richard  frowned. 

"  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  asked,  "  does  a  bride 
wear  jewels  ?  " 

"  I  believe  pearls  are  allowed,"  timidly  said 
Dora.  "  Besides,"  she  pleaded,  "  they  are  sure 
to  please  the  child." 

"  Pearls,  and  no  prayer-book  ! "  he  con- 
tinued, critically. 

But  Dora  shut  his  mouth.  She  produced  a 
combination  of  white   satin  and   gilt  paper, 


92 


DORA. 


•vrhich,  when  completed,  was  to  be  placed  in 
the  hand  of  the  bride,  and  to.be  considered  a 
prayer-book.  Doctor  Richard  smiled,  and 
made  no  further  objection. 

"  Dear  5Iiss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  evidently 
much  gratified,  "  I  cannot  tell  you  how  grate- 
ful I  feel  for  all  the  trouble  you  have  taken, 
and  if  Eva  does  not  go  crazy  with  joy,  I  know 
nothing  about  her  !  " 

"  I  hope  she  will  like  it,"  remarked  Dora, 
with  a  smile.     "  I  have  done  my  best." 

"  You  have  done  wonders — and  the  doll  is 
a  beautiful  doll !  Indeed,  I  feel  bound  to  wish 
her  bridegroom  joy,  whoever  he  may  be.  This 
Minna  or  Thecla — for  who  can  doubt  her 
parentage  ? — will  surely  make  a  good  wife ! 
There  is  truth  in  her  honest  blue  eye,  and 
good-humor  in  her  round,  rosy  face.  She  has 
a  good  intellectual  development  too.  In  sliort, 
I  see  a  store  of  domestic  bliss  for  the  happy 
man ! " 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
"  to  think  you  should  see  it  all  in  the  doll's  face. 
Doctor  Richard  !     I  only  saw  that  she  stares." 

"  She  does  stare  a  lee-ttle — just  a  leettle 
bit,"  deprecatingly  observed  Doctor  Richard. 
"  In  her  maiden  innocence,  you  see,  she  looks 
at  this  wicked  world,  and  tliinking  no  harm  of 
it,  forgets  to  drop  her  eyelids.  Besides,  this 
bit  of  insolence  shows  her  high  birth  and  per- 
fect breeding.  Then  how  do  we  know  but 
that  she  is  a  specimen  of  the  flist  young  lady  ! 
These  rosy  lips  may  talk  slang  for  all  I  can 
tell  to  the  contrary ;  but  oh  !  if  she  does  talk 
slang,  let  it  be  German  slang,  I  pray,  and  not 
English  slang,  wherewith  she  might  corrupt 
ray  little  Eva's  vernacular." 

"  She  shall  not  talk  at  all,  Doctor  Richard," 
gayly  exclaimed  Dora.  "  I  am  a  fairy,  and  I 
lay  upon  her  the  spell  of  silence." 

"  An  Irish  Gels,  such  as  used  to  be  laid  on 
our  kings  and  heroes,"  s^iid  Doctor  Richard, 
rising.  "Dear  Miss  Courtenay,  your  bride  is 
perfect  now  ;  for  as  she  can  never  say  the  fatal 


'  yes,'  so  can  she  never  cease  to  be  a  bride. 
Life  to  her  will  be  a  perpetual  marriage  morn- 
ing, with  orange-wreath  ever  in  bloom.  Time 
is  no  more  for  her.  Youth  and  beauty  cannot 
fade.     Truly  you  are  a  fairy  indeed ! " 

"  What,  going  so  soon  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, as  she  saw  him  looking  for  his  hat. 

"  Yes,  I  have  an  appointment.  But  I  shall 
bring  you  Eva  to-morrow." 

"  Bring  her  to  luncheon,"  warmly  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

Doctor  Richard  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  he  said,  after  the 
pause -of  a  moment;  "but  though  I  by  no 
means  presume  to  make  the  favor  I  am  going 
to  ask  a  condition  of  my  little  Eva's  coming 
to-morrow,  I  hope  you  will  grant  it.  I  have 
long  promised  Eva  that  she  and  I  should  have 
luncheon  together  on  the  grass  before  the 
weather  got  too  cool.  Will  j'ou  join  us  ? 
The  spot  is  pretty,  and  within  five  minutes  of 
Rouen  by  rail." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  and  her  daughter  were  taken 
by  surprise.  They  exchanged  looks,  then  Mrs. 
Courtenay  spoke  and  accepted. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Dora  after 
Doctor  Richard  had  left  them,  "  it  would  really 
have  been  unkind  to  refuse  Doctor  Richard ; 
he  would- have  thought  we  were  afraid  of  put- 
ting him  to  some  expense,  and  that  would 
have  annoyed  and  humbled  him." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Beautiful  and  bright  shone  the  next  morn- 
ing when  Dora  opened  her  window  and  looked 
out.  A  warm  sunbeam  stealing  over  the  roof 
of  their  low  house  lit  the  opposite  church  ;  the 
vine-leaves  reddened  in  its  glow,  the  air  was 
crisp  and  sharp,  and  every  thing  to  Dora 
looked  enchanting. 

"We  must  give  Doctor  Richard  and  his 
little  girl  a  good  luncheon,"  said  Mrs.  Cour- 


THE  LUNCHEON. 


93 


tenay,  who  partook  of  her  daughter's  exhila- 
ration; "a  pair  of  roast  fowls,  and  a  tart. 
The  little  thing  is  sure  to  like  the  pastry." 

"And  so  is  the  father,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Luan,  grimly ;  "  he  eats  our  bread  and  butter 
as  if  he  were  starving." 

"Nonsense,  Mrs.  Luan,"  shortly  rephed 
Mrs.  Courtenay;  "how  can  Doctor  Eichard  be 
starving  when  he  has  that  large  house  to  him- 
self?" 

"  I  dare  say  he  pays  no  rent,"  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  after  a  pause ;  "  they  have  put  him  in 
to  keep  it  aired." 

"  They  '.—who  ?— what  they  ?  " 

But  to  answer  this  question  was  beyond 
Mrs.  Luan.  She  rephed,  impatiently,  that  she 
did  not  know  their  name ;  and  Mrs.  Courtenay 
had  too  much  to  do  to  spend  more  time  in  the 
argument.  A  terrible  deal  of  fuss  and  worry 
had  to  be  gone  tlirough  before  the  luncheon 
could  be  got  ready  for  one  o'clock,  the  ap- 
pointed hour. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  joined  Madame  Bertrand  in 
the  kitchen,  and  a  httle  squabbling,  polite,  of 
course,  but  decidedly  squabbling,  was  the  con- 
sequence of  her  appearance  there.  Dora,  too, 
had  her  share  of  preparation,  though  Mrs. 
Courtenay  would  not  hear  of  her  venturing  on 
anything  culinary,  lest  she  should"  soil  her 
clothes  or  spoil  her  bands ;  and  Mrs.  Luan 
alone  sat  idle,  and  in  high  dudgeon.  Most 
cordially  did  she  hate  these  doings,  and  Doc- 
tor Richard  and  Eva,  and  the  expense  and  the 
doll.  But  she  was  mute.  She  knew  she  had 
no  right  to  speak,  and  that  her  objection,  if 
she  made  any,  would  not  be  regarded.  So  she 
■was  silent,  and  looked  on — brooding  over  her 
wrongs,  and  thinking  them  many. 

And  now  the  hour  came  round,  and  both 
Dora  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  began  to  look  anx- 
iously at  the  clock.  At  a  quarter  to  one  steps 
were  heard  commg  up  the  staircase,  and  a 
childish  voice  mingled  with  deeper  tones. 
Dora  went  and  opened  the  door,  and  received 


her  young  guest  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss.  Eva 
had  her  father'.s  dark  eyes  and  his  genial 
smile,  but  otherwise  she  was  not  much  like 
him.  She  gave  Dora  a  shy,  wistful  look,  then 
she  returned  her  embrace,  and  was  familiar 
and  free  in  a  moment. 

"  You  live  here  ?  "  she  said,  running  to  the 
window  and  peeping  out.  "  Oh  !  what  a  queer 
old  church  !  Do  you  like  it  ?  Are  these  your 
birds  ?  " 

She  looked  curiously  at  Dora's  sparrows, 
who  fed  tamely  on  the  ledge  of  the  open  win- 
dow, looking  sharply  at  Eva,  however,  with 
their  little  keen  black  eyes,  then  suddenly  flew 
away  twittering. 

"  Miss  Courtenay  prevails  over  every  thing," 
said  Doctor  Eichard ;  "  birds  and  children." 

"  Come  to  my  room,"  whispered  Dora.  "  I 
have  a  young  lady  there  who  is  waiting  for  you." 

"  For  me  ?  "  said  Eva,  looking  interested. 

Dora  nodded,  and,  taking  her  hand,  led  her 
away.  They  entered  her  room,  and  she  there 
pi'obably  introduced  Miss  Eva  to  the  bride,  for 
Doctor  Eichard  smiled  as  he  heard  a  succes- 
sion of  rapturous  screams  from  within.  Pres- 
ently Eva  came  out  with  the  doll  in  her  arms, 
and  ran  to  her  father,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her 
cheeks  flushed  with  joy. 

"  Oh  !  do  look  ! "  she  entreated ;  "  do !  " 

Doctor  Eichard  pretended  to  be  greatly 
pleased  and  surprised,  and  every  thing  would 
have  gone  on  charmingly,  if  Mrs.  Luan  had 
not  uttered  a  croaking  note  : 

"  That  doll  will  not  hve — it  is  consump- 
tive ! " 

"  Dolls  do  not  die,"  pertly  said  Mis3  Eva  ; 
"  they  get  broken,  though." 

She  laughed,  but  no  one  else  laughed.  Doc- 
tor Eichard's  ^ye  had  an  angry  flash  as  it 
lighted  on  Mrs.  Luan,  and  Dora  and  her 
mother  looked  shocked  and  distressed,  for  the 
glow  of  health  was  wanting  to  Eva's  dark 
cheek,  and  now  and  then  a  hectic  flush  ap- 
peared there  in  its  stead.     She  was  a  sickly 


94 


DORA. 


child,  too,  and  ate  little.  The  chickens,  though 
done  to  a  turn,  did  not  tempt  her;  the  tart 
she  would  not  touch.  "  Ah  !  there  is  sorrow 
in  store  for  him  there,  and  he  knows  it," 
thought  Dora ;  but  conscious  of  future  grief 
though  he  might  be,  Doctor  Richard  did  not 
intrude  his  apprehension  upon  his  friends.  He 
was  as  gay  and  cheerful  as  he  could  well  be, 
uttered  some  pretty  nonsense  about  the  bride, 
and  indulged  himself  in  some  of  those  flights 
of  speech  which,  if  they  entertained  Dora,  al- 
ways saddened  her,  as  showing  how  little 
share  the  practical  had  in  his  life.  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  seemed  struck  with  this  fact  too,  and 
she  remarked  in  her  innocence : 

"  Doctor  Richard,  what  a  pity  you  do  not  do 
something !  Write  books,  I  mean,"  she  added, 
a  little  confused  at  the  uncalled-for  advice ;  "  I 
am  sure  you  could  write — oh  !  so  well." 

"  Papa  does  write,"  put  in  Eva,  rather  jeal- 
ously ;  "  he  wrote  me  out '  Cinderella,'  and  il- 
lustrated it,  with  her  glass  slipper  and  all." 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay  ;  "are 
you  really  an  author,  Doctor  Richard  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  having  written  out  '  Cinder- 
ella '  will  scarcely  give  me  a  claim  to  author- 
ship, Mrs.  Courtenay,"  he  replied,  smiling. 

"  Oh !  but  one  can  put  a  great  deal  of 
originality  even  into  an  old  fairy-tale,"  kindly 
said  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  I  am  sure,"  she  added 
emphatically,  '<  your  version  of  '  Cinderella ' 
is  charming.     Is  it  published  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  some  liberties  with  it," 
gravely  replied  Dr.  Richard ;  "  and  therefore 
I  dare  not  face  the  juvenile  puljlic,  which  is 
apt  to  be  cruel  at  times.  For  instance,  I  have 
called  'Cinderella'  'Rhodopis.'  You  are  not 
aware,  perhaps,  that  Cinderella's  prince  was 
one  of  the  Pharaohs,  and  that  she  now  sleeps 
as  a  mummy  beneath  one  of  the  Pyramids. 
Now,  how  would  the  little  men  and  the  little 
women  like  that?  Not  at  all,  I  dare  say,  for, 
you  see,  Eva  persists  in  calling  poor  Rhodopis 
•  Cinderella,  and  her  sandal  a  glass  slipper." 


Mrs.  Courtenay  tried  to  look  both  knowing 
and  captivated,  and  was  sure  that  the  story  of 
Rhodopis,  alias  Cinderella,  was  mightily  inter- 
esting, and  she  reiterated  her  wish  that  Doctor 
Richard  would  become  an  author.  "  I  assure 
you  you  would  be  successful,"  she  added,  with 
much  simplicity. 

Doctor  Richard  seemed  amused. 

"  I  might,  as  you  kindly  predict,  be  success- 
ful," he  replied,  "  but  then  I  should  no  longer 
be  Doctor  Richard,  which  is,  I  confess  it,  the 
character  I  prefer.  If  you  were  to  know,  my 
dear  madam,  how  many  a  fine  fellow  has  been 
spoiled,  to  my  knowledge,  by  some  such  hob- 
by !  I  Uke  to  keep  my  identity,  and  feel  as 
sure  as  human  frailty  will  let  me,  that  I  shall 
remain  what  I  am.  Change  is  so  dangerous. 
History  and  daily  life  are  both  full  of  perplex- 
ing questions  bearing  on  this  matter.  Take 
Robespierre,  for  instance,  and  put  him  on 
horseback,  and  perhaps  the  man  is  a  hero. 
Take  Napoleon,  and  make  a  disappointed  law- 
yer of  him,  and  he  sends  all  his  friends  to  the 
scaffold,  as  he  sent  boyish  conscripts  to  death, 
and  follows  them  there,  instead  of  dying  like  a 
chained  eagle  in  Saint  Helena.  Nay,  even  a 
trifle — if  there  be  such  things  as  trifles,  which 
I  doubt — can  change  the  aspect  of  a  country 
and  the  character  of  a  people.  There  was  a 
time  when  it  was  a  capital  offence  to  bum 
coals  in  London.  Fancy  London  without 
smoke  or  soot,  and  just  tell  me  if  the  London- 
ers must  not  have  been  then  a  different  people 
from  what  they  are  now." 

"  Good  gracious  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay— 
"  London  without  coals ! " 

"Dreadful!  is  it  not?" 

"  And  fame.  Doctor  Richard,"  said  Dora, 
rather  earnestly  —  "  do  you  not  care  for 
that?" 

"  Fame  for  writing  about  Rhodopis,"  he 
good-humoredly  replied. 

"  There  are  other  subjects,"  she  urged. 

"  So  there  are — '  Red-riding  Hood,'  '  Beauty 


INDIGNATION  OF  DORA'S  AUNT. 


95 


and  the  Beast,'  and  others  ;  and  to  tell  you 
the  truth,  I  have  written  about  them  too.  A 
set  of  gypsies !  There  is  no  knowing  where 
they  came  from.  They  are  here,  they  are 
there,  in  every  point  of  the  compass  do  we  find 
these  pretty  Zingari.  A  world  of  trouble  they 
gave  me." 

"  And  so  you  do  not  care  about  fame  ?  "  re- 
sumed Dora,  who  would  not  be  balked  of  an 
answer. 

"  Verily,  Miss  Courtenay,  I  do  not.  I  ad- 
mire the  man  who  first  said,  '  What  has  pos- 
terity done  for  me,  that  I  should  do  anything 
for  posterity  ? '  Thinic,  moreover,  how  fragile 
a  good  it  is !  Think  of  poor  Ptolemy  and  his 
eleven  ethereal  regions.  For  a  thousand  years 
and  more  he  reigns  supreme  in  astronomy, 
then  comes  a  Copernik,  or  a  Galileo,  and 
Ptolemy  may  sleep  in  Egyptian  dust  for  ever- 
more."    . 

"  Ah !  if  one  could  rouse  him  out  of  that 
apathy  to  generous  ambition !  "  thought  Dora, 
with  a  secret  sigh. 

But  of  that  there  seemed  little  chance. 
Doctor  Richard  looked  too  good-humored,  and 
too  well-satisfied  with  his  poverty  to  be  easily 
roused.  But  however  deficient  these  genial 
natures  may  be,  they  have  a  charm  which  is 
irresistible.  When  Doctor  Richard,  noticing 
how  languid  Eva  began  to  look,  spoke  of  go- 
ing, it  seemed  to  Dora  that  his  three  hours' 
stay  had  been  too  brief,  and  she  longed  to 
join  her  entreaties  to  Eva's  prayer  to  be 
allowed  to  remain.  But  she  did  not — perhaps 
she  dared  not.  Doctor  Richard  looked,  more- 
over, as  if  he  would  have  been  inexorable,  so 
Eva  submitted,  threw  her  arms  around  Dora's 
neck,  and  said,  kindly, 

"  Do  come  and  see  me — do  !  " 

"  Miss  Courtenay  has  no  more  time  to  lose, 
Eva,"  said  her  fitlier.  "  She  lost  yesterday 
in  dressing  your  doll,  and  to-day  in  receiving 
you  ;  it  is  out  of  the  question  that  she  should 
sacrifice  a  third  day." 


Eva  looked  rather  crestfallen,  but  Dora 
whispered : 

"  Never  mind ;  you  will  come  and  see  me 
again,"  and  the  brightness  returned  to  the 
child's  face,  and  with  a  look  of  intelligence 
she  nodded,  adding  in  Dora's  ear,  "  I  love 
you.  Miss  Courtenay.  Oh !  I  do  love  you 
so ! " 

A  fond  parting  followed,  and  Dora  went  to 
the  window  and  looked  out,  and  saw  Doctor 
Richard  and  his  little  girl  walking  down  the 
street.  Ere  they  turned  the  corner,  Eva 
looked  up  at  her,  and  gave  her  a  last  friendly 
nod.  « 

Wlien  Dora  drew  her  head  away,  and 
looked  in,  she  found  her  aunt  in  a  towering 
passion.  Whenever  Mrs.  Luan  was  angry, 
speech  failed  her  utterly.  She  stammered 
through  her  wrath,  and  became  almost  incom- 
prehensible. Dora  looked  at  her  flushed  and 
agitated  face,  then  glanced  to  her  mother  for 
explanation. 

"  Your  aunt  is  angry  with  poor  Doctor 
Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

."  A  low,  vulgar  upstart !  "  stammered  Mrs. 
Luan — "  ho«^  dare  he  ? — how  dare  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  has  Doctor  Richard  done  ?  " 
asked  Dora,  with  a  little  indignation. 

"  No  doctor  ! "  said  Mrs.  Luan — "  not  he. 
I  know  a  doctor." 

"Aunt,  what  is  the  matter?  " 

"  Don't  tease  her,"  whispered  her  mother. 
"  She  is  in  a  rage  because  she  considers  that 
Doctor  Richard  has  retracted  his  invitation." 

"  Oh  !  aunt,"  remonstrated  Dora^  "  is  it 
possible  you  do  not  see  that  Doctor  Richard 
spoke  so  to  surprise  Eva  to-morrow  ?  He 
looked  at  me  quite  significantly  all  the  time." 

This  did  not  mend  matters. 

"  Why  does  he  look  the  beggar  ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Luan !  she  was  nearly  a  beggar 
herself,  yet  in  her  wrath  she  could  find  no 
keener  word  of  reproacli  for  the  olTcnder  than 
this.     Dora  blushed  a  little,  but  was  mute. 


96 


DORA. 


"  Why  docs  he  come  here  ?  "  angrily  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Luan.  "  He  is  old,  he  is  poor ! — 
you  can't  want  him  !  " 

Dora  became  crimson.  "  Aunt — "  she  be- 
gan, but  Mrs.  Courtenay  interrupted  her  a 
little  angrily. 

"Nonsense,"  she  said,  "Dora  wants  no 
one;  but  I  must  say  that  even  if  Doctor 
Richard  comes  here  for  her  sake — which  I  do 
believe — Dora  could  not  do  better  than  to 
receive  his  addresses.  He  is  a  most  delight- 
ful man,"  she  added,  emphatically  ;  "  and  I 
should  like  to  see  my  dear  Dora  provided  for 
^  before  I  die." 

Now,  the  idea  of  Dora  being  provided  for 
by  "the  beggar,"  as  she  called  him,  added 
fuel  to  the  fire  of  Mrs.  Luan's  wrath,  and 
there  is  no  knowing  to  what  a  height  it  might 
have  risen  if  Madame  Bertrand  had  not  just 
then  made  her  appearance  with  a  note,  which 
she  handed  to  Dora.  It  was  from  Doctor 
Richard,  and  reminded  her  of  her  promise  to 
meet  Eva  the  next  day.  He  also  intimated 
that,  "  in  case  they  did  not  find  ten  too  early, 
the  carriage  of  the  lady  with  whom  Eva  re- 
sided, and  which  had  been  placed  at  his 
disposal,  would  come  round  for  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan,  at  that  hour." 

Dora's  bright  face  took  a  flush  of  pleasure 
and  triumph  as  she  read  this  note  aloud,  and 
it  was  with  the  mildest  reproach  that  she 
said, 

"  There,  aunt ! " 

Mrs.  Luan  was  silent  and  sulky,  and  Mrs. 
Courtenay  full  of  childish  glee. 

"A  carriage!"  she  said.  "Then  I  sup- 
pose the  lady  is  quite  rich.  I  should  not 
wonder  if  she  had  really  adopted  little  Eva. 
Poor  darling!  It  is  an  injudicious  plan,  I 
think.  How  will  she  like  poverty  when  she 
has  to  go  back  to  it?  Parents  should  think 
of  these  things." 

She  shook  her  head,  and  breathed  a  philo- 
sophic sigh  over  Doctor  Richard's  imprudence. 


Dora  folded  up  her  note,  and  w'ent  into  her 
room  to  read  it  again. 

There  is  a  rapid  downward  path  in  all  things, 
and  Dora  Courtenay  was  going  down  very  fast 
to  the  dangerous  depths  whence  it  is  all  but 
hopeless  to  look  up  to  the  free  level  world 
again.  She  knew  it,  and  yet  she  went  on  and 
never  cared  to  stop  or  to  look  back.  Doctor 
Richard  was  free,  that  was  enough  for  con- 
science. He  was  free,  and  though  it  might  be  a 
misfortune  to  love  him,  it  could  no  longer  be  a 
sin.  Foolish  girl,  as  if  a  misfortime  to  which 
our  wiil  says  "  yes  "  were  not  almost  always 
guilt  more  or  less  deep,  but  guilt  none  the  less. 
Her  aunt's  jealous  observation  of  Doctor  Rich- 
ard, her  mother's  fond  comments  on  his  fre- 
quent visits,  were  as  music  to  her  ear,  siren 
music,  wondrous  and  strange,  that  made  her 
reckless  of  the  breakers  and  sand-banks  to 
which  her  poor  bark  was  rapidly  steering. 
Oh  !  if  it  were  true  !  If  he  really  liked  her ! 
If  he  came  to  the  house  for  her  !  If  he  had 
brought  his  child  because  he  wished  her  to  be- 
come that  child's  mother  !  If  he  hoped  to  bind 
her  to  himself  by  the  closest  and  the  dearest 
ties  known  to  man  !  She  was  alone  now,  yet 
at  the  thought  she  hid  her  flushed  face  in  both 
her  hands.  She  was  so  happy  that  she  could 
scarcely  bear  it.  It  did  occur  to  her,  indeed, 
that  she  might  be  mistaken — ^that  Doctor  Rich- 
ard had  no  such  intentions  as  her  mother  and 
her  own  secret  hopes  attributed  to  him.  But 
even  if  he  had  not  these  wishes  now,  might 
they  not  come  with  time  ?  Few  women  who 
have  the  power  to  fascinate  do  not  know  that 
it  is  theirs.  Dora  Courtenay  had  charmed 
many  hearts  in  her  day.  She  knew  she  had 
the  gift  to  attract  even  those  for  whom  she 
cared  little ;  was  it  presumption  to  think  that 
she  might  win  a  heart  so  dear  ? — was  it  wrong 
to  try  and  do  so  ? 

"  I  will  be  good!"  thought  Dora.  "I  will 
try  and  conquer  my  faults.  If  I  reach  his  lik- 
ing it  shall  be  through  his  esteem,  and  then  I 


POVERTY   NOT  INCONSISTENT   WITH  HAPPINESS. 


97 


can  at  least  look  back  on  the  attempt  without 
self-reproach  or  shame.  Perhaps  he  is  too 
poor  to  marry.  Perhaps,  seeing  aunt  and  mam- 
ma almost  dependent  upon  me,  and  having  a 
child  himself,  he  will  not  be  so  imprudent.  If 
so,  I  cannot  blame  him,  surely.  And  yet  peo- 
ple can  be  poor  and  very  happy  !  " 

As  Dora  came  to  this  conclusion,  she  could 
not  help  looking  toward  the  lame  teacher's 
window.  It  was  open,  to  let  in  the  pleasant 
autumn  heat ;  and  Dora's  eye  could  dive  down 
into  the  clear  dark  room,  dark  not  because  it 
was  gloomy,  but  on  account  of  the  surround- 
ing brightness  of  the  street.  It  was  yery  neat, 
though  poorly  furnished ;  the  beeswaxed  floor 
shone  again,  the  distant  bed  looked  snow- 
white,  and  the  lame  teacher's  wife  sat  mend- 
ing hnen  with  a  work-basket  on  a  chair  by 
her.  Presently  she  put  down  her  task  to  peep 
out  of  the  window.  She  gave  a  long,  wistful 
look  down  the  street,  then  she  glanced  toward 
a  little  clock  on  the  mantle-piece.  "Was  her 
husband  late? — was  she  getting  anxious  at 
his  delay?  But  there  was  no  need — a  door 
opened,  and  Dora  saw  him  coming  in.  He 
went  up  to  his  wife  and  kissed  her.  She  took 
away  his  hat  and  books,  made  him  sit  down  in 
her  chair,  and  brought  him  a  glass  of  wine. 

"Yes,  one  can  be  poor  and  be  happy," 
thought  Dora,  turning  away  from  the  little 
homely  picture,  "  but  I  could  be  happy  also 
even  though  I  should  never  marry  him,  or 
though  we  did  not  marry  till  we  were  both  as 
old  as  that  poor  teacher  and  his  wife.  I  could 
wait  twenty  years  for  him  and  think  it  but  a 
day.  It  would  be  strange  indeed  to  marry  at 
past  forty,  and  yet  I  know  I  could  be  happy 
still — very  happy.  His  hair  would  be  quite 
gray,  and  mine  would  be  turning  fast.  I  should 
be  rather  a  faded  old  maid,  such  a  one  as  peo- 
ple say  of,  *  She  must  have  been  good-looking 
when  she  was  twenty.'  He  would  be  brown 
and   rather  thin,  and   Eva  would  be  a  young 

matron   with  children    on  her  knees — but    I 
7 


should  be  happy,  very  happy.  We  should 
have  a  little  money  then — not  much,  but  just 
a  little ;  a  cottage  near  Dublin,  too ;  and  he 
would  be  out  all  day,  and  would  come  home  to 
me  of  an  evening  a  little  tired,  but  cheerful. 
'  Dora,'  he  would  say,  as  we  sat  and  talked  by 
the  fire,  '  do  you  remember  when  you  were 
young  ?  You  had  bright  hair  and  brighter 
eyes,  and  a  blooming  face  enough  then,  and 
now  they  are  gone.'  I  shall  answer,  '  You 
should  have  come  earlier,  sir,  and  you  should 
have  had  them  all.'  Ah  !  what  will  he  say  to 
that  ?  " 

Poor  Dora !  Her  dream  from  subjective  and 
contingent  has  become  future,  so  swift  is  the 
transition.  She  stands  in  her  room  with  Doc- 
tor Richard's  note  in  her  hand,  and  happening 
to  raise  her  eyes,  she  sees  her  own  image  in 
the  greenish  glass  above  her  mantel-piece.  It 
is  a  dull  plate,  tarnished  and  gloomy,  but 
Dora's  radiant  face  shines  from  its  depths  with 
tlie  glorious  light  of  hope  and  young  love.  And 
Dora  is  not  forty  yet,  but  twenty-three,  and 
she  barely  looks  beyond  her  teens.  There  is 
not  a  silver  thread  in  the  rich  brown  gold  of 
her  hair,  nothing  has  yet  dimmed  the  bright- 
ness of  her  happy,  radiant  eyes.  With  that 
pure,  fresh  bloom  on  her  cheek,  and  that  smile 
of  delight  on  her  ripe  lips,  Dora  looks  enchant- 
ing just  then.  Mere  beauty  would  seem  cold 
near  her,  for  beauty  is  not  always  a  light  from 
within ;  and  the  fervor  of  her  dream,  and  the 
consciousness  that  she  is  still  young  and  pleas- 
ant to  look  at,  make  Dora's  heart  beat  with 
secret  rapture.  She  knows,  too — how  can  she 
help  knowing  it  ? — that  she  has  more  to  give 
than  to  receive  in  the  exchange  she  is  contem- 
plating. How  many  women  would  care  for  the 
poor  widower  of  thirty-odd  ? — and  how  many 
men  could  help  caring  for  the  young  radiant 
girl? 

"He  is  worth  ten  of  me,"  thought  Dora, 
turning  away  from  the  glass  ;  "but  most  girls 
woidd    remember  his   half-shabby   coat,   and 


98 


DORA. 


laugh  at  him  if  he  came  to  woo.  Perhaps  he 
knows  it,  and  is  diffident.  Ah !  if  he  knew 
all — if  he  but  knew  it ! " 

But  on  reflection  Dora  thought  it  was  as 
well  that  he  should  not  know  it.  She  opened 
a  drawer,  took  out  a  little  inlaid  mother-of- 
pearl  casket,  in  which  she  kept  her  choicest 
treasures — memorials  of  her  brother — and  she 
put  Doctor  Richard's  note  with  them. 

"  Paul  would  have  liked  him,"  she  thought, 
the  tears  rushing  to  her  eyes.  "  Oh !  if  I 
could  but  have  seen  these  two  together — if  I 
could  but  have  sat  and  listened  to  them,  how 
happy,  how  very  happy  I  should  have  been  !  " 

But  sad  and  troubled  are  the  dreams  we 
indulge  in  when  we  remember  the  dead.  We 
cannot,  if  we  have  truly  loved  them,  let  fancy 
free  where  they  are  concerned.  The  gloom, 
the  sad  austerity  of  the  grave,  its  silence  and 
its  hopelessness,  ever  come  between  us  and 
our  reverie.  The  remembrance  of  her  brother, 
ever  loved,  ever  lamented,  fell  like  a  pall  over 
Dora's  happy  imagining. 

"  I  must  not  think  of  these  thmgs,"  she 
thought,  rather  sadly;  "if  Doctor  Richard 
wished  to  marry  he  need  not  have  waited  so 
long  to  do  so  ;  and  if  he  does  not  care  for  me, 
why  should  I  be  ever  thinking  of  him  ?  " 

But  she  left  his  note  where  she  had  put  it 
with  the  treasures  and  the  mementoes  of  her 
youth. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

At  ten  exactly  a  handsome  carriage  drew 
up  before  Madame  Bertrand's  door,  and  Ma- 
dame Bertrand  herself  came  up  with  the  ti- 
dings, looking  both  charmed  and  puzzled  as 
she  delivered  them. 

"  Such  a  pretty  carriage,"  she  said  ;  "  such 
handsome  horses,  too  ! " 

Mrs.  Courtcnay  smiled  mysteriously;  and 
Dora  went  to  the  glass,  tied  her  bonnet-strings, 
and,  without  looking  round,  said  : 


"  Are  you  ready,  aunt  ?  " 

Twenty  times  since  the  mornmg  Mrs.  Luan 
had  declared  that  she  would  not  go,  and  twenty 
times  she  had  retracted  and  said  she  would. 
As  her  last  declaration  had  been  one  of  denial, 
her  present  one  was  naturally  one  of  assent. 
Rather  shortly  she  answered  that  she  was 
quite  ready.  They  went  down  at  once  and 
entered  the  carriage ;  whilst  Madame  Ber- 
trand stood  on  the  doorstep  to  see  them  drive 
away. 

The  morning  was  one  of  perfect  beauty. 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  raptures  were  spoken ;  but 
though  Dora  was  mute,  never,  it  seemed  to 
her,  had  earth  and  sky  been  so  full  of  happy 
promises  as  they  were  then.  Through  the  city 
they  went ;  beyond  the  track  of  the  railways, 
through  a  green  and  fertile  landscape,  up  a 
winding  road  that  overlooked  the  silver  Seine, 
till  they  came  at  length  to  a  little  wood,  on 
the  skirt  of  which  they  saw  Doctor  Richard 
and  Eva  waiting  for  them. 

"  I  have  called  her  Minna  ! "  cried  Eva,  dart- 
ing forward  to  meet  Dora  as  she  alighted. 

"And  I  have  already  broken  her  nose," 
added  Doctor  Richard,  completing  the  infor- 
mation. 

"  Why  did  she  fall?  "  argued  Eva,  looking 
injured. 

"  Oh  !  Doctor  Richard,  what  a  charming 
place  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Courtcnay,  looking  round ; 
"  and  we  have  a  carpet  too,"  she  added,  see- 
ing one  spread  on  the  grass  within  the  shade 
of  the  trees. 

"  And  partridges  in  the  hamper  ! "  said  Eva ; 
"and—" 

"  Eva ! "  Doctor  Richard  said  no  more ;  but 
Eva  was  mute  and  looked  abashed. 

The  spot  was  pretty,  sylvan  and  quiet.  A 
stone  cross  rose  at  the  angle  of  the  wood ; 
close  by  it  a  little  stream  murmured  through 
the  grass ;  below  lay  a  wide  and  rich  laud- 
scape,  and  the  winding  road  up  which  they 
had  come  passed  through  the  wood  and  be- 


OLD  FIDO. 


99 


came  an  arched  avenue.  Dora  watched  the 
carriage,  which,  after  bringing  them  thus  far, 
now  entered  that  shady  path,  and  was  soon  hid- 
den from  her  view,  and  she  wondered  whither 
it  was  going.  Doctor  Kichard,  who  was  read- 
ing her  face  very  closely,  was  soon  by  her  side. 

"  Do  you  like  this  spot  ?  "  he  asked. 

"How  could  I  fail  liking  it ?"  she  replied, 
smiling ;  "  it  is  charming  !  " 

"Yes  ;  and  I  brought  Fido,"  said  Eva,  who 
could  not  bear  to  be  silent.  "  Oh !  do  look  at 
him,  Miss  Courtenay  ! " 

A  pretty  King  Charles,  who  lay  licking  his 
paws  on  the  carpet,  now  interrupted  the  task 
in  order  to  look  at  the  new-comers.  On  Mrs. 
Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan  he  bestowed  a  lazy, 
good-natured  look;  but  Dora  he  eyed  more 
shrewdly.  After  a  few  seconds  given  to  de- 
liberation, he  rose,  came  up  to  her,  sniffed  her 
flowing  skirts,  then  pawed  her  with  a  famil- 
iarity that  looked  like  recognition.  Dora  stoop- 
ed and  patted  his  silky  head,  whilst  Doctor 
Richard  smiled  significantly. 

"  Fido  is  a  shy,  reserved  dog,"  he  said ; 
"  and  yet,  you  see,  Miss  Courtenay,  he  ac- 
knowledges your  power  at  once." 

"  Oh !  but  they  all  like  Dora ! "  cried 
Mrs.  Courtenay;  "Madame  Bertrand's  cat 
dotes  on  her ;  and  it  is  a  most  intelligent  cat, 
and  never  could  endure  Monsieur  Theodore, 
who  ran  away  without  paying  the  poor  old 
thing ! " 

"  What  a  remarkable  cat !  "  gravely  said 
Doctor  Richard.  "  I  hope  it  clawed  Mon- 
sieur Theodore  and  spit  at  him." 

"  Yes,  it  didj"  innocently  replied  Mrs. 
Courtenay ;  adding,  whilst  Mrs.  Luan  looked 
daggers  at  her,  "  but  it  loves  Dora  so." 

Doctor  Richard  did  not  answer  that  every- 
thing and  every  one  must  love  Dora,  but  his 
look  and  smile  implied  it  so  plainly,  that  Dora 
thought  with  secret  joy,  "  Well,  I  believe  it  is 
so — I  do  believe  that  everything  and  almost 
everyone  likes  me !  " 


"  Come  and  look  at  yourself  in  the  water  !  " 
cried  Eva,  impatiently;  and  taking  hold  of  her 
hand,  she  led  Dora  away. 

The  little  stream  flowed  slowly,  and  proved 
a  fair  mirror.  It  gave  back  the  gray  old 
cross,  all  mossy  with  age,  and  a  quivering 
aspen-tree,  and  Dora's  laughing  face  as  she 
bent  over  it ;  and  it  soon  gave  back  Doctor 
Richard's  face,  too,  for  Dora  remembered 
later  that  he  kept  very  close  to  her  that  morn- 
ing. But  a  sudden  breeze  rippled  the  water, 
and  every  image  within  it  was  broken. 

"A  pretty  looking-glass,  forsooth!"  said 
Doctor  Richard — "  is  it  an  image  of  life.  Miss 
Courtenay  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  replied  quickly. 

"  You  prefer  a  smooth,  unrufiled  surface  ? — 
so  do  I ;  but  who  has  it  ?  So  let  us  make  the 
best  of  the  present  time." 

"  It  is  time  for  luncheon,"  said  Eva. 

"  Well,  I  believe  it  is,  you  little  torment ! " 

Mrs.  Luan  and  her  sister-in-law  were  al- 
ready seated  on  the  carpet.  Dora  and  Eva 
joined  them — Minna  was  by  Eva's  side,  and 
Fido  nestled  on  Dora's  skirts — and  Doctor 
RicharfZ  unpacked  the  hamper,  and  laid  the 
cloth.  Alas !  how  extravagant  that  Doctor 
Richard  was !  This  was  not  a  sumptuous  re- 
past, indeed,  but  it  was  far  too  luxurious  for  a 
man  in  his  circumstances.  Dora  did  not  dare 
to  say  a  word,  but  Mrs.  Courtenay  assumed 
the  privilege  of  her  years,  and  lectured  this 
prodigal  entertainer.  He  heard  her  with  his 
usual  good-humor,  but  attempted  no  justifica- 
tion. 

"  Life  is  brief,"  was  all  he  said ;  "  let  us 
enjoy  its  happy  hours  whilst  we  may,  Mrs. 
Courtenay.  This  delightful  morning  required 
cold  partridges,  a  melon,  champagne,  and  a 
few  et-ceteras.  I  contend  that  we  could  not 
enjoy  the  landscape  upon  less." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  tried  to  find  an  answer  to 
this  argument,  but  failed.  Doctor  Richard's 
geniality  was   commimicative   this    morning. 


100 


DORA. 


Even  Mrs.  Luan,  perhaps  under  the  influence 
of  such  unwonted  good  cheer,  relaxed  from 
the  usual  severity  of  her  demeanor.  Dora  did 
not  care  to  hide  her  happiness.  When  the 
meal  was  over,  she  went  with  Eva  to  sit  by  the 
stream,  and  she  there  enjoyed  herself  silently. 
The  sweet  autumn  breath  from  the  little  wood 
filled  her  with  a  vague  delight.  There  was 
music  in  the  soft  rustling  of  the  trees,  and  to 
sit  thus,  forgetting  the  world,  and  looking  at 
the  dark  though  clear  water  rippling  along, 
and  seeming  to  carry  away  in  its  waves  the 
woodland  green  and  the  blue  sky,  was  en- 
chanting. This  httle  bit  of  Norman  landscape 
was  Eden  to  her,  and  everything  in  her  aspect 
said  so.  Doctor  Richard  looked  at  her  even 
while  he  talked  with  Mrs.  Courtenay,  and  as 
he  looked  he  thought : 

"  If  ever  a  girl  was  made  for  happiness, 
this  is  she.  Happiness  is  her  calling,  her 
vocation,  just  as  ill-temper  is  her  precious 
aunt's." 

Unconscious  of  this  severe  sentence,  Mrs. 
Luan,  who  could  enjoy  the  good  things  of  this 
world  when  she  had  not  to  pay  for  them,  was 
wondering  whether  she  had  really  done  justice 
to  Doctor  Richard's  luxurious  cheer,  when  a 
fit  of  drowsiness  that  came  upon  her  seemed 
to  answer  the  question  satisfactorily.  Doctor 
Richard,  who  saw  her  struggling  against  sleep, 
smiled  and  walked  away  to  smoke  a  cigar, 
whilst  Dora  rose  and  went  away,  with  Eva  to 
wander  in  the  wood. 

"I  shall  stay  and  mind  Mrs.  Luan,"  whis- 
pered Mrs.  Courtenay  to  her  daughter.  "  I  do 
believe  she  is  overpowered  with  the  cham- 
pagne; you  know  how  I  was  for  just  one 
'glass  of  cider." 

Dora  laughed,  but  willingly  enough  left 
Mrs.  Luan  to  her  mother's  care,  and  walked 
away,  as  we  said,  with  Eva,  leisurely  followed 
by  Fido.  They  went  along  ii  nnrrow  winding 
path,  where  the  shade  was  thick,  and  where 
a  sunbeam  could  scarcely  pierce   the  heavy 


boughs.  Many  yellow  and  withered  leaves 
already  strewed  the  grass,  and  crackled  under 
their  feet ;  but  the  air  was  warm,  and  a  gentle 
breeze  scarcely  moved  Dora's  muslin  dress. 
She  felt  vaguely  happy,  and  holding  the 
child's  hand,  hearing  her  chattering  without 
listening  to  it,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  walk  on 
thus  nor  think  of  stopping,  when  she  suddenly 
stood  still  on  seeing  Doctor  Richard.  He  was 
leaning  against  a  tree  smoking,  and  throwing 
away  his  cigar,  he  came  toward  them. 

"  Eva,"  he  said,  without  preamble,  "  go  and 
put  on  your  hat." 

"  There  is  no  sun." 

"  Do  as  I  bid  you." 

Eva  pouted,  but  obeyed.  Dora  and  Doctor 
Richard  remained  alone.  Dora  felt  tongue- 
tied  ;  sudden  shyness  came  over  her,  and 
kept  her  mute.  Doctor  Richard  did  not  ap- 
pear to  see  her  embarrassment.  He  only 
smiled  as  he  saw  Fido  standing  in  the  path 
looking  after  Eva,  but  remaining  after  evident 
consideration  of  the  matter,  with  Dora. 

"  Fido  has  decidedly  given  you  his  heart ! " 
he  said. 

"  Does  he  not  stay  with  you.  Doctor  Rich- 
ard ?  " 

"  No.  I  have  the  slightest  share  of  Fido's 
regard.  Yet  he  owes  me  much.  A  poor 
English  lady  died  here,  and  this  little  fellow 
was  her  great  trouble  daring  her  last  illness, 
for,  as  she  said  to  me,  '  No  one  will  have  him 
for  his  own  sake,  he  is  too  old,  and  no  one 
here  can  value  him  for  mine.'  I  set  her  mind 
at  rest  by  promising  to  take  him  ;  so  when 
the  poor  thing  died,  I  put  Fido  in  my  pocket 
and  brought  him  to  Eva.  But  there  was 
grief  and  trouble  in  Fido's  little  heart,  and  he 
never  could  take  kindly  to  us.  He  lies  on 
his  cushion  licking  his  paws,  and  sometimes 
seeming  to  wait  and  listen  for  a  footstep  that 
comes  not,  and  will  never  come  again  ;  and 
he  lives  a  good  deal  within  himself,  like  a 
philosopher.     Poor  old  Fido  !    There  is  some 


AN  UNEXPECTED  REVELATION. 


101 


thing  pathetic  to  me  in  the  old  age  of  animals. 
We  are  still  in  all  the  early  exuberance  of  our 
youth  when  decrepitude  steals  upon  them. 
But  all  this  Eva  does  not  suspect,  and  she 
petulantly  wonders  that  Fido  will  not  play 
with  her,  and  murmurs  because  he  walks 
instead  of  running  along  the'  avenues." 

"  What  avenues  ?  "  thought  Dora. 

"  How  do  you  like  this  little  wood  ?  "  sud- 
denly asked  Doctor  Richard,  changing  the 
subject  rather  abruptly. 

"  Very  much  indeed ! " 

"  Yes,  it  is  pretty  enough  ;  but  you  and  I, 
Miss  Courtenay,  have  seen  spots  more  beauti- 
ful by  far  in  another  land  than  this  !  " 

"  You  mean  in  Ireland  ?  "  replied  Dora. 

"  I  do.  We  had  not  there  indeed  that  clear 
brightness,  the  attribute  of  the  Continent ; 
but  there  is  a  western  softness  which  has  its 
charm,  sometimes  mysterious  and  sweet,  like 
what  we  imagine  of  fairy-land.  If  there  be  a 
country  in  the  landscape  of  which  poetry  has 
chosen  to  become  visible,  it  is  surely  Ireland. 
In  other  lands — ^I  speak  of  the  most  favored — 
climate,  ruins,  and  famous  old  names  lend 
their  beauty  to  spots  which  otherwise  might 
not  be  much  heeded  ;  but  in  Ireland  it  is  not 
so.  There  the  spell  is  unalloyed.  We  need 
no  heathen  temple  to  grace  the  waterfall.  We 
do  not  ask  what  poet's  villa  once  stood  by  the 
lake — what  battle  was  fought  on  its  banks. 
We  have  a  sad  story  which  we  would  rather 
forget  than  remember,  so  we  look  at  this 
beautiful  Ireland,  and  think  her  a  free  virgin 
still,  for  though  many  have  been  her  masters, 
she  has  preserved  the  grace  and  wildness  of  lib- 
erty through  all  the  bitterness  of  her  servitude." 

He  spoke  with  some  emotion,  and  tears 
rushed  to  Dora's  eyes  as  she  heard  him.  A 
vision  of  the  past — not  of  her  lost  home,  but 
of  Deenah  as  she  imagined  it,  with  its  shining 
lake,  its  white  waterfall,  and  its  sweet  sylvan 
landscape — rose  before  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  pained  you,"  he  said. 


"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  for  your  words 
made  me  think  of  places  which  I  shall  never 
see." 

"  Oh  !  how  can  you  tell  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  it,"  she  very  sadly  said. 

"  Oh !  but  I  do,"  he  ejaculated,  with  sud- 
den fervor.  "  God  forbid  that  I  should  stay 
forever  in  this  pretty  Normandy — so  pretty, 
but  so  homely !  " 

"  He  does  not  mean  to  stay  in  Rouen," 
thought  Dora,  with  a  pang.  "  I  might  have 
known  it.     What  brought  him  here  ?  " 

Doctor  Richard  unconsciously  answered  that 
question  by  saying : 

"I  came  for  Eva's  health.  She  required 
this  keen  air — for  a  time,  at  least.  This  is  a 
very  elevated  spot." 

They  had  reached  a  narrow  platform  be- 
yond the  wood.  On  their  left  stood  a  little 
brick  chdteau,  of  gay  and  cheerful  aspect.  Its 
high  slate  roof  and  tall. chimney-stacks  were 
cut  sharply  in  the  blue  air.  Its  many  win- 
dows were  framed  by  white  stone  carvmgs. 
Behind  it  spread  a  green  mass  of  trees^ith 
many  an  autumn  tint  softening  their  verdure. 
In  front  a  blooming  flower-garden  sloped  from 
the  flight  of  stone  steps  that  led  to  the  porch 
down  to  the  handsome  iron  gates  that  closed 
the  entrance  to  the  pleasant  domain. 

The  flowers,  stirred  by  a  soft  breeze,  were 
dancing  in  the  sun,  the  window-panes  shone 
again  in  its  western  glow  ;  the  whole  place 
looked  so  gay,  so  airy,  so  cheerful,  that  a 
smile  broke  over  Dora's  face  as  she  went  up 
to  the  gates,  and  stood  still  to  look  at  it 
through  the  iron  bars. 

"  Oh !  what  a  place  to  live  in ! "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  What  sunny  rooms  those  must  be 
within  it,  rooms  in  which  it  is  delightful  to  sit 
and  read  by  the  open  window,  and  alternate 
every  page  with  a  look  ! " 

"  Say  but  sesame,  and  the  gates  shall  open, 
and  the  whole  place  bid  you  welcome,"  gayly 
exclaimed  Doctor  Richard. 


102 


DORA. 


Dora  turned  round  with  a  startled  look. 

"  It  is  mine,"  be  said,  quietly. 

"  Yours ! " 

"  Mine,  at  least,  on  a  long  lease." 

Dora's  blooming  face  grew  ashy  pale,  and 
her  hand  grasped  one  of  the  bars  of  the  iron 
gate  with  unconscious  force.  "Who? — what 
was  Doctor  Eichard  ?  He  answered  the  ques- 
tion she  was  unable  to  put,  and  said,  gravely : 

"My  name  is  Templemore — Doctor  Richard 
Templemore." 

If  he  had  led  her  mind  back  to  Ireland, 
that  this  revelation  might  prove  less  startling, 
Mr.  Templemore  failed  in  his  object.  The 
name  he  uttered  seemed  to  tear  her  heart 
asunder.  This  man  who  stood  by  her  side 
was  her  lost  brother's  happy  rival.  His  suc- 
cess had  been  Paul  Courtenay's  death ;  his 
triumph  had  helped  to  fill  the  lonely  grave  in 
Glasnevin.  She  clasped  her  hands  together  in 
a  mute  agony,  and  looked  at  him  with  such 
passionate  reproach  in  her  eyes,  that  Mr.  Tem- 
plajM)re  colored  deeply.  His  lips  parted  to 
Bay  something,  but  Dora  did  not  give  him 
time  to  speak. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Templemore ! "  she  cried, 
stepping  back  from  him ;  "  you  arc  Eichard 
Templemore  I "  And  she  uttered  the  name  as 
if  it  were  of  itself  sufficient  denunciation. 

"  I  am,"  was  his  brief  reply. 

"  What  had  I  done  to  you  that  you  should 
inflict  this  upon  me  ?  "  vehemently  exclaimed 
Dora,  speaking  with  mingled  sorrow  and  amaze- 
ment ;  "  could  you  not  be  satisfied  with  your 
triumph  over  my  brother  ?  Is  he  not  dead, 
and  forever  out  of  your  way  ?  What  had  I 
done  to  you  to  deserve  this  V  " 

Her  passion  confounded  him.  He  looked 
at  her  pale,  troubled  face,  and  vainly  attempted 
to  fathom  its  meaning.  Was  this  anger  caused 
by  his  long  concealment  of  his  identity  ? 

"  Believe  me,"  he  said  vehemently,  "  I  never 
meant  to  deceive  you — never  !  I  have  long 
known  what  your  feelings  toward  me  were. 


and  if  you  had  not  sought  mc  as  Doctor 
Richard,  I  would  never  have  intruded  myself 
upon  you.  This  mistake  was  involuntary  on 
my  part ;  and  since  I  have  seen  how  painful 
it  would  be  to  you,  it  has  become  insufierable 
to  me ! " 

Dora  grew  more  calm  as  he  spoke.  But  she 
turned  her  head  away,  for  her  heart  was  full — 
full  almost  to  breaking.  This  man,  this 
Eichard  Templemore,  her  brother's  successful 
competitor,  was  also  a  wealthy  man,  who  had 
practised  on  her  credulity.  She  had  been  his 
toy,  his  plaything,  and  when  she  remembered 
the  fond  dreams  into  which  her  ignorance  had 
led  her,  dreams  which  had  haunted  her  this 
very  morning,  and  given  common  pleasures 
the  sweetness  of  Paradise,  she  could  almost 
have  wished  to  die,  so  keen  was  the  sorrow  of 
that  moment. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  angry — very  angry  indeed," 
said  Mr.  Templemore,  in  a  tone  full  of  concern. 
"  And  yet  you  must  hear  me — you  must  in- 
deed !  I  could  not  bear  to  relinquish  your 
regard ! " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  heard  or  spoken," 
sadly  answered  Dora,  walking  away  from  the 
gates  of  the  chateau ;  "  nothing,  Mr.  Temple- 
more— you  succeeded,  my  brother  failed,  and 
failure  was  death !  You  were  called  Doctor 
Eichard  by  people  who  seemed  to  know  you, 
and  you  never  said,  '  I  am  that  Mr.  Temple- 
more to  whom  you  owe  a  bitter  grief. '  " 

"  Will  you  hear  me  ?  "  persisted  Mr.  Temple- 
more, walking  by  her  side,  and  entering  the 
wood  with  her ;  "  surely  in  justice  you  must." 

She  was  silent — he  continued  : 

"  Allow  me  to  ask  if  you  considered  Mr. 
Courtenay's  decision  an  unjust  one  ?  " 

Dora  colored,  and  turned  upon  him  almost 
angrily. 

"  I  consider  the  competition  to  have  been 
an  unjust  one,"  she  eaid,  with  ill-repressed  in- 
dignation ;  "  I  consider  that  my  brother  hav- 
ing done  nothing  to  forfeit,  but  everything. to 


MR.  TEMPLEMORE  EXPLAINS  HIS  HEIRSHIP. 


103 


deserve  his  uncle's  good  optaion,  ought  not  to 
have  had  this  stigma  thrown  upon  him." 

Mr.  Templemore  loolted  at  her  lieenly. 

"And  perhaps  you  think,"  he  remarked, 
"  that  I,  a  stranger  as  it  were  to  Mr.  Courte- 
nay,  took  advantage  of  an  old  man's  weakness 
to  deprive  the  lawful  heir  ?  " 

"Mr.  Courtenay's  legal  right  to  give  away 
his  fortune, .  and  yours  to  accept  it,  I  do  not 
question,"  replied  Dora,  with  a  touch  of  bit- 
terness in  her  tone,  and  without  looking  at  Mr. 
Templemore  as  she  spoke. 

"  Then  that  was  your  impression  of  the 
case,"  he  said,  very  gravely ;  "  a  severe  one. 
Miss  Courtenay,  but  which  I  can  bear,  for  I  do 
not  deserve  it.  You  knew  that  I  was  the 
nephew  of  Mr.  Courtenay's  wife ;  but  are  you 
aware  that  his  ■  fortune — all  his  fortune,"  he 
added,  emphatically,  "  was  derived  from  that 
wife?" 

Dora  turned  upon  him  with  a  startled, 
amazed  look.  "  No,"  she  said,  quickly  ;  "  he 
made  it  in  the  Funds.     He  told  Paul  so." 

"  He  may  have  increased  it  by  lucky  hits," 
composedly  replied  Mr.  Templemore ;  "  but 
I  say  it  again — he  derived  it  from  my  aunt.'' 

"  Then  it  was  yours,  after  all ! "  exclaimed 
Dora,  confounded. 

"  It  shoidd  have  been  mine,"  he  corrected, 
"  but  my  grandfather's  caprice  bestowed  it  on 
my  aunt,  in  preference  to  my  fiither.  She 
promised  to  make  amends  to  me,  and  I  was 
brought  up  in  that  belief  Mr.  Courtenay 
himself  helped  to  deceive  me.  The  catalogue, 
the  competition  were  therefore  an  injustice  to 
me,  which  I  felt  and  resented.  I  won  the 
race,  indeed,  but  I  only  won  back  what  I 
should  never  have  risked  to  lose." 

Dora  heard  him  with  mingled  mortification 
and  shame.  So  her  long  resentment  was 
groundless.  There  was  no  foundation  for  that 
passionate  dislike  which  she  had  nursed  up 
against  Mr.  Templemore.  Her  past  disap- 
pointment rested  on  an  error,  and  was  both 


futile  and  childish.  Neither  she  nor  Paul  was 
the  wronged  one,  as  far  as  money  went,  since 
that  which  they  had  received  at  Mr.  Courte- 
nay's death  had  been  actually  taken  from  Mr. 
Templemore's  legitimate  inheritance.  There 
was  something  in  the  thought  which  Dora 
could  not  endure.  She  turned  upon  Mr. 
Templemore,  and  exclaimed  in  the  bitterness 
of  her  heart — 

"  If  Paul  and  I  had  known  this,  we  would 
not  have  accepted  Mr.  Courtenay's  legacy. 
Paul  would  never  have  competed  with  you, 
Mr.  Templemore,  and  I  should  have  him 
still." 

She  could  not  utter  the  last  words  without 
a  quivering  of  the  lip,  which  betrayed  the 
keenness  of  her  sorrow.  He  took  her  hand 
and  pressed  it  between  both  his  own  with 
mingled  tenderness  and  respect. 

"  Heaven  alone  knows  how  much  I  feel  for 
your  grief,"  he  said  with  much  emotion,  "  but 
surely  you  must  see  now  that  I  am  guiltless 
of  it  ?  Surely  Mr.  Templemore  may  hope  to 
be  as  much  your  friend  as  was  Doctor  Rich- 
ard ?  " 

But  the  question  awoke  a  new  storm  in 
Dora's  heart.  Let  it  be  that  her  resentment 
had  been  groundless,  that  Mr.  Templemore 
was  innocent  of  all  wrong  to  her  dead  brother, 
that  Paul  had  been  the  victim  of  an  old  man's 
whim  and  a  selfish  girl's  ambition ;  let  all  this 
be — and  Mr.  Templemore  spoke  with  a  manly 
frankness  which  her  own  integrity  forbade 
her  to  doubt — let  all  this  be,  we  say,  stili 
something  was  left — something  that  made  her 
snatch  her  hand  from  his,  and  turning  upon 
him  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes, 
exclaim  almost  passionately : 

"Mr.  Templemore,  who  bought  my  draw- 
ings from  Monsieur  Mei'and  ?  " 

He  blushed,  but  he  was  too  honest  to  deny. 

"  I  did,"  he  said. 

That,  too,  was  gone — that  dear  illusion  of 
her  little  pride  m  her  own  worth  !    That,  too, 


104 


DORA. 


was  gone,  that  fond  belief  in  her  little  skill — 
that  innocent  joj  over  gold  won  by  labor  both 
pleasant  and  beloved.  She  bad  been  living 
on  Mr.  Templemore's  bounty  all  the  time ! 
She,  Paul  Courtenay's  sister,  had  been  eating 
Mr.  Templemore's  bread !  The  bitterness,  the 
humiliation  were  both  too  much  for  her  pride. 
She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  even 
through  her  slender  fingers  her  tears  fell  fast. 
Mr.  Templemore  was  dreadfully  shocked. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  eagerly, 
"  do  not  wrong  us  both — do  not ! " 

By  a  strong  effort  Dora  compelled  her  tears 
to  cease  flowing. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  looking  up 
again,  and  trying  to  speak  calmly,  "  but  that 
was  too  much  for  me." 

"Indeed — indeed!"  said  Mr.  Templemore, 
earnestly,  "if  you  think  that  I  bought  your 
drawings  simply  to  oblige  you,  you  wrong  me. 
I  value  them  highly — more  than  I  can  tell. 
Their  merit  is  of  the  highest  order.  I  hope 
you  believe  me  ?  " 

Dora  was  silent,  but  she  did  not  believe 
him.  She  had  some  talent,  of  course  she  had, 
but  her  drawings  had  found  but  one  pur- 
chaser, and  he  was  Mr.  Templemore !  Oh  ! 
bitterness — bitterness  that  could  not  be  put 
into  words ! 

"Mr.  Templemore,  you  meant  well,"  she 
said,  at  length,  "but  you  are  a  rich  man,  and 
you  cannot  understand  how  your  kindness  has 
given  my  poverty  a  bitter  and  needless  sting." 

"Miss  Courtenay,  do  not  upbraid  me  with 
my  money.  It  is  not  so  long  ago  since  I  was 
a  struggling  man,  with  a  sickly  child,  in  Lon- 
don— it  is  not  so  long  ago  since  I  had  to  sec 
her  wasting  away  before  my  eyes  for  the  need 
of  that  pure  air  which  I  was  too  poor  to  pur- 
chase for  her.  It  is  not  so  long  ago  since  I  lost 
her  two  little  sisters,  and  felt,  as  I  buried  them 
on  one  day, '  May  God  give  me  the  grace  not  to 
hate  the  rich ! '  Ah  !  you  have  never  known 
what  it  is  to  sec  a  loved  creature  die,  and  to 


lack  the  means  that  could  save  it.  These 
means  have  come,  indeed,  but,  Miss  Cour- 
tenay, I  often  fear  that  even  for  ray  last  child 
they  have  come  too  late.  Pity  me ! — spite  all 
my  money,  pity  me  !  " 

The  sorrow  in  his  looks,  the  pathos  in  his 
voice,  went  to  Dora's  heart.  Amazement  had 
given  place  to  resentment,  that  had  yielded  to 
wounded  pride,  and  now  this  melted  away  as 
she  heard  him  remind  her  of  his  past  poverty 
— that  poverty  which  seemed  to  make  hira 
Doctor  Richard  once  more.  It  vanished  as  he 
bade  her  pity  him,  spite  the  wealth  which  had 
come  too  late.  She  forgave  him  freely,  fully, 
the  past  and  the  present  all  in  one  moment. 
She  forgave  him,  and  forgot,  for  a  while,  at 
least,  that  she  loved  him,  and  what  she  had 
felt  keenly  in  the  first  moment  of  the  dis- 
covery— that  since  Doctor  Richard  had  not 
wooed  the  poor  girl,  Mr.  Templemore  surely 
never  would. 

"  God  save  you  from  such  a  sorrow !  "  she 
said,  fervently. 

"Amen!"  he  no  less  fervently  replied; 
then,  with  his  serene,  genial  smile,  he  added  : 
"  I  knew  you  could  not  cherish  resentment 
against  me,  and  of  Mrs.  Courtenay,  I  believe, 
I  am  sure." 

Dora  was  silent;  she  felt  languid  and  de- 
pressed. It  seemed  to  her  as  if  Mr.  Temple- 
more had  given  her  a  chance  of  liberty,  and  as 
if  she  had  voluntarily  cast  it  away. 

"  Doctor  Riohard,"  she  began — "  Mi'.  Tem- 
plemore, I  mean." 

"  No,  do  call  me  Doctor  Richard,"  he  in- 
terrupted— "I  like  it  dearly.  I  was  forced 
into  my  profession  by  a  severe  father ;  I  hated 
it  years,  and  now  that  I  have  relinquished  it  I 
love  it,  and  I  regret  it.  Often,  when  I  am 
seated  in  a  warm  room,  with  every  comfort 
around  me,  I  remember  some  of  the  scenes  I 
witnessed  in  London  when  I  was  obliged  to 
reside  in  the  neighborhood  of  St.  Giles's,  and 
I  feel  a  longing  upon  me  to  go  back  amongst 


LES  ROCHES, 


105 


those  starved,  squalid  wretches  who  are  the 
pariahs  of  civilization.  There  are  plenty  of 
them  in  yonder  old  Gothic  city  down  below 
us.  Vice,  woe,  disease  are  there,  asking  for 
mercy,  and  getting  it,  and  alas !  deserving  it 
very  rarely.  There,  I  am  Doctor  Richard, 
Miss  Courtenay ;  and  do  you  wonder  that, 
having  been  a  poor  man  almost  all  my  life,  I 
like  a  name  which  helps  to  remind  me  of  a 
port  safely  reached  after  a  long,  bitter  jour- 
ney?" 

Dora  did  not  answer.  They  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  path,  and  they  stood  once  more 
within  view  of  the  spot  where  they  had  spent 
the  morning.  Eva  was  there,  between  Mrs. 
Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan,  talking  volubly ; 
and  Mr.  Templemore,  seeing  the  amazed  faces 
of  the  two  ladies,  had  no  difficulty  in  guessing 
that  the  little  chatterer  had  been  unable  any 
longer  to  keep  his  secret. 

"Are  you,  too,  a  true  woman,  Eva? "he 
said.  "Well,  it  does  not  matter  now.  I  have 
been  making  my  peace  with  Miss  Courtenay, 
and  I  trust  Mrs.  Courtenay  will  likewise  be 
good  enough  to  forgive  my  unintentional  cheat- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Luan's  forgiveness  Mr.  Templemore  did 
not  solicit.  Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  at  her 
daughter's  face,  and  seeing  peace  and  good- 
will there,  though  with  the  traces  of  recent 
tears,  she  frankly  accepted  Mr.  Templemore's 
extended  hand.  Indeed,  she  looked  delighted 
with  the  change  in  his  circumstances,  for  if 
he  was  Dora's  admirer,  was  it  not  all  the  better 
that  he  should  be  a  wealthy  man,  and  not  a 
poor  doctor  ?  Mr.  Templemore  promptly  fol- 
lowed up  his  advantage  with  a  request  that  the 
ladies  would  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  at  Lcs 
Roches ;  and  Mrs.  Courtenay,  understanding 
this  was  his  abode,  candidly  expressed  her  will- 
ingness to  see  it,  for,  as  she  innocently  added, 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  do  not  live  in  that  dread- 
ful tumble-down  old  place  in  our  street.  Doctor 
Richard ! " 


"  I  keep  it  as  a  storehouse  for  my  purchases, 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  but  I  seldom  sleep  there.  I 
reside  here  with  Eva  and  my  sister-in-law.  Miss 
Moore.  Eva,  go  first  and  tell  your  aunt  we 
are  coming." 

Eva,  who  looked  much  happier  since  she  was 
no  longer  bound  to  secrecy,  obeyed  gladly,  and 
vanished  down  the  path.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  had  all  reached  the  chateau ;  the  gates 
were  open,  and  a  lady  with  a  green  parasol, 
who  was  walking  in  the  flower-garden,  came 
forward  to  receive  them. 

Some  secret  apprehensions  which  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay had  conceived  on  hearing  of  a  sister-in- 
law  vanished  as  she  saw  that  lady.  None  save 
a  strictly  Platonic  friendship  could  exist  be- 
tween this  homely-looking,  middle-aged  woman 
and  the  genial,  imaginative  Mr.  Templemore. 

"I  am  so  glad  the  sun  is  shining ! "  was  her 
welcome,  "  because  Les  Roches  wants  sun,  you 
know.  Which  will  you  see  first,  the  house  or 
the  grounds  ?     Is  it  not  a  hot  day  ?  " 

Her  face  was  plump  and  foolish,  and  her  man- 
ners were  awkward.  She  blundered  through 
speech  in  a  silly  fashion,  very  hke  the  flight 
of  a  reckless  butterfly,  so  heedlessly  were  the 
words  uttered  and  constructed  into  sen- 
tences. Mrs.  Courtenay,  who  longed  to  scru- 
tinize Mr.  Templemore's  domestic  arrange- 
ments, asked  to  see  the  house  first.  Dora 
felt  no  such  curiosity.  Every  new  proof  of 
Mr.  Templemore's  wealth  only  reminded  her 
of  the  distance  which  separated  him  from  poor 
Doctor  Richard. 

The  chateau  of  Les  Roches  was,  however, 
as  pleasant  an  abode  as  she  had  conjectured 
it  to  be  from  its  external  appearance.  It  had 
large,  sunny  rooms,  some  still  hung  with  tapes- 
try, and  all  bearing  tokens  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more's tastes  and  purchases.  Many  a  relic 
which  she  had  seen  in  Monsieur  Merand's  shop 
Dora  recognized,  and  in  Mr.  Templemore's 
own  sitting-room,  or  study,  she  saw  her  copy 
of   the  Music-Lesson  hanging    in  the  frame 


106 


DORA. 


which  had  led  to  thft  pxpnsure  of  the  Pnbois. 
But  she  felt  no  pride,  no  joy  in  seeiDK  it  there. 
She  remembered  the  little  comedy  Mr.  Temple- 
more  and  Monsieur  Merand  had  acted  about 
that  drawing;  she  remembered  how  he  had 
helped  her  to  pick  up  the  five-franc  pieces,  and 
how  his  dark  eyes  shone  with  pleasure  as  she 
gathered  her  little  hoard.  But  she  could  not 
bear  to  recollect  these  things — they  seemed  to 
put  her  on  a  level  with  little  Catherine  and 
his  other  proteges ;  and  when  Eva,  pulling  her 
skirt  for  the  twentieth  time  since  they  had 
entered  the  house,  whispered  again,  "  Do  come 
and  look  at  the  rocks,"  she  gladly  yielded. 

Scarcely  had  they  entered  a  winding  path 
behind  the  chateau,  when  Mr.  Templemore 
was  by  their  side. 

"  This  place  was  laid  out  a  hundred  years 
ago,"  he  said ;  "  and  it  has  false  ruins  and 
artificial  rocks,  which  have  grown  old  and 
venerable,  and  in  which  Eva  believes  im- 
plicitly." 

"  Here  they  are ! "  cried  Eva,  springing  for- 
ward. 

Dora  heard  a  sound  of  water,  a  few  steps 
more  showed  a  green  bank,  against  which  rose 
brown  rocks,  covered  with  ferns,  ivy,  and  a 
world  of  creeping  plants  and  flowers.  From 
a  gap  above  came  a  silver  thread  of  water, 
which  was  broken  in  its  fall  by  a  projecting 
stone,  and  bubbled  away  in  light  white  foam 
in  a  marble  tank  below.  Blue  forget-me-nots 
and  white  daisies  were  set  around  its  edges, 
and  formed  a  flowery  wreath  to  the  crystal 
waters.  Beyond  this  the  shady  path  they  had 
followed  wound  away  through  a  green  and 
tangled  wilderness  of  underwood,  with  tall 
trees  shooting  out.  Not  a  sunbeam  pierced 
tlie  leafy  dome,  or  fell  on  the  brown  earth. 
The  wild  vine  went  from  tree  to  tree,  and 
mingled  with  the  honeysuckle  and  the  ivy  ; 
and  in  a  hollow  of  the  path  apj)earcd  an  old 
stone  bench,  mossy  and  broken;  it  looked 
ages  old,  a  relic  of  the  past  surviving  midst 


the  eternnl  freshness  of  nature.  Dora  felt 
troubled,  languid,  and  depressed.  Everything 
she  saw  said  too  plainly,  "You  must  not 
hope.  This  is  the  home  for  love,  but  not  for 
you  ! " 

But  it  is  very  hard  to  resist  the  magic  of  a 
loved  voice.  Mr.  Templemore  was  bent  on 
winning  back  Dora's  lost  favor,  and  Dora  was 
not  quite  so  heroic  as  to  remain  obdurate. 
Something  of  her  cheerfulness  returned,  and 
when  they  joined  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
Mr.  Templemore  persuaded  them  to  stay  to 
dinner,  she  yielded  almost  as  willingly  as  her 
mother. 

The  meal,  though  not  sumptuous,  was  lux- 
urious enough.  It  had  plate,  and  crystal,  and 
every  attribute  of  wealth.  Dora  remembered 
with  a  swelling  heart  how  much  her  simple 
mother  had  thought  of  the  couple  of  fowls 
and  the  tart  she  had  provided  for  Doctor 
Richard  and  his  child.  She  remembered  her 
own  little  folly  about  the  doll.  Alas !  what 
was  Minna's  bridal  finery  to  the  rich  man's 
indulged  daughter  ?  What  she  herself  had 
been  to  the  father — ^the  amusement  of  an 
hour — no  more.  Yet  she  compelled  herself 
to  talk,  to  laugh,  to  look  happy  and  pleased. 

After  dinner  Mr.  Templemore  drove  them 
home.  As  he  parted  from  them  he  wrung 
from  Dora  the  confession  that,  though  she 
wished  to  cherish  no  resentment  against  him, 
yet  something  remained  which  she  could  not 
conquer. 

"  Then  I  must,'^  he  said,  looking  a  little 
vexed,  yet  smiling  good-humoredly — "  I  must 
prevail  over  that  something  ;  we  must  have  a 
lasting  peace ! " 

The  warmth  and  earnestness  of  his  manner 
sent  the  blood  to  her  heart.  They  might 
mean  much  or  nothing,  and  hope  and  reason 
alternately  inclined  to  either  surmise. 

"  Oh  !  what  a  dehghtful  day  ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

Dora,  who  sat  with  her  elbow  resting  on 


AN  INVITATION   TO   TnE   CHATEAU. 


107 


the  tabic,  aud  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  was 
mute.  Mrs.  Luan  had  been  remarkably  silent 
all  day  ;  but  she  now  spoke  : 

"  Dora,  when  is  Mr.  Templemore  going  to 
marry  you  ?  " 

"  What !"  cried  Dora,  turning  crimson.  _ 

"  Has  he  really  asked  you  ?  "  eagerly  said 
her  mother. 

"  No,"  answered  Dora,  looking  displeased. 

"  He  will,  then,"  muttered  Mrs.  Luan,  nod- 
ding grimly. 

If  she  had  said  "he  shall"  instead  of  "he 
will,"  Mrs.  Luan  would  have  been  nearer  to 
her  meaning. 

"  Aunt,  you  are  mistaken,"  impressively  said 
Dora. 

Mrs.  Luan  never  argued  ;  but  she  was  tena- 
cious, and  never  disheartened.  She  had  parted 
from  John  to  separate  him  from  Dora ;  and 
when  Dora  had  grown  rich,  she  had  reunited 
these  two,  then  parted  them  again,  still  faith- 
ful to  John's  interests  and  her  own  ends. 
Doctor  Richard  was  giving  her  a  world  of 
trouble,  for  she  did  not  want  him  to  have 
Dora,  when,  by  turning  into  Mr.  Templemore, 
he  had  set  all  right.  He  was  in  love  with 
Dora,  no  doubt,  and  he  should  marry  her. 
Her  niece  would  have  a  rich  husband,  which 
would  be  a  good  thing  for  the  family ;  and 
John  would  not  marry  a  poor  girl.  He  had 
talked  of  coming  to  Rouen,  "  but  it  would  be 
all  over  then,"  coolly  thought  Mrs.  Luan. 

Dora  little  suspected  what  an  ally  her  aunt 
meant  to  prove ;  but  her  mother  was  more 
candid. 

"  I  think  I  shall  get  out  the  cards,  and  have 
Louis  Dix-huit's  patience,"  she  said,  signifi- 
cantly. "  I  could  not  sleep,  so  I  may  as  well 
do  that,  may  I  not  ?  " 

Dora  did '  not  answer.  But  when  Mrs. 
Courtenay  began  to  deal  out  her  cards,  and  to 
exclaim  triumphantly,  "  It  is  going  on  beauti- 
fully !  Well,  I  never  had  so  many  twos  and 
queens  all  at  once !    It  is  quite  remarkable. 


and  so  encouraging ! "  When  we  say  she 
gave  vent  to  such  exclamations  with  an  em- 
phasis and  an  eagerness  which  betrayed  that 
she  was  secretly  indulging  in  a  wish  the  suc- 
cess of  which  the  cards  were  to  tell,  Dora 
would  hear  no  more.  "  And  yet  such  things 
have  been,"  she  thought,  as  she  retired  to  her 
room,  and  looked  at  the  patient  Griselidis  on 
her  bed-curtains  ;  "  such  things  have  been  in 
song  and  story,  a  long  time  ago,  when  the 
world  was  younger  than  it  is  now ;  but  even' 
then  they  were  not  always  blessed.  Poor, 
patient  Griselidis,  you  paid  dear  for  your  hon- 
ors."    But  need  that  price  always  be  paid  ? 

Dangerous  question,  which  came  like  a  temp- 
tation, and  to  which,  in  her  pride,  Dora  would 

not  even  Usten. 

— ■  ♦ ' 

CHAPTER  XX. 

We  cannot  live  without  hope.  It  is  the 
very  condition  of  our  being.  Dora  was  haunt- 
ed by  Mrs.  Luan's  words,  and  her  mother's 
questioning  look  was  as  the  token  of  a  great 
coming  joy.  The  thought  haunted  her  dreams, 
and  she  found  it  on  wakening,  though  some- 
what shorn  of  its  glow;  but  the  spell  was 
broken  when  her  mother  said  at  breakfast: 

"Come  back  early  from  the  Musec,  will 
you  ?  " 

Dora  put  down  her  cup  and  turned  pale. 
The  Musee! — what  should  take  her  there? 
Were  it  but  for  pride's  sake,  she  must  finish 
the  drawing  she  had  begun,  take  money 
for  it  from  Monsieur  Merand,  and  pretend 
nothing  to  the  dealer ;  but  after  that,  what 
should  she  do  ?  A  blank  followed  this  ques- 
tion. Mr.  Templemore  was  the  real  purchaser 
of  her  drawings,  and  now  that  she  knew  it, 
could  she  live  on  his  generosity  ?  In  a  mo- 
ment pride  was  in  arms,  and  uttered  as  fatal  a 
"  never "  as  was  ever  spokep.  But  unluckily 
pride  failed  to  say  how  Dora  was  to  live. 
Hope,  so  strong  with  the  young,  might  have 


108 


•DORA. 


lent  her  some  illusions  concerning  labor  and 
its  rewards ;  but  the  fact  that  her  little  inde- 
pendence had  all  rested  on  a  rich  man's  kind- 
ness, silenced  such  pleasant  drearas.  The  will 
to  work  DO  longer  implied  success ;  and  as 
Dora  put  down  her  cup,  it  seemed  to  her  as 
if  the  shares  in  the  Eedmore  Mines  were  lost 
anew. 

But  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  evidently  had  no 
suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  still  believed  in 
Monsieur  Merand,  Dora  smiled,  looked  cheer- 
ful, and  went  to  her  task  as  if  nothing  had 
occurred.  Yet  her  heart  was  very  heavy.  Her 
pencil  flagged,  her  hand  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten its  cunning.  She  leaned  back  in  her 
chair,  looking  at  the  picture  she  was  copying, 
and  seeing  it  not.  Every  now  and  then,  in- 
deed, she  woke  from  her  dream,  and  started 
at  the  sound  of  a  step,  and  felt  her  cheek  flush 
if  the  door  opened ;  but  there  was  no  need  for 
these  signs.  Mr.  Templemore  did  not  come 
to  fill  up  Doctor  Richard's  vacant  oflace.  Dora 
was  glad  of  it;  she  did  not  wish  for  or  expect 
it,  and  yet,  if  she  had  questioned  her  heart 
very  keenly,  she  might  have  found  disappoint- 
ment there. 

But  Mr.  Templemore  had  called  on  her 
mother  during  her  absence.  He  had  come 
with  an  invitation  for  a  week's  stay  at  Les 
Roches,  which  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  accepted. 

"The  carriage  is  to  come  for  us  next  Mon- 
day," resumed  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

Dora  was  silent.  She  was  happy,  and  she 
could  not  help  it.  But  when  Mrs.  Courtenay 
resumed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  "  When  you 
are  Mr.  Templemore's  wife,"  Dora  rebelled 
and  inten-upted  her  hastily. 

"  Mamma,  you  must  never  say  that!  " 

"  Nonsense  !  You  never  can  do  better — 
and  any  one  can  see  that  he  wishes  it ! " 

The  truth  was,  that  Mrs.  Luan  and  Mrs. 
Courtenay  had  so  talked  the  matter  over  dur- 
ing Dora's  absence,  that  had  any  one  told  Mrs. 
Courtenay  Mr.  Templemore  had  no  thought 


of  marrying  her  daughter  she  would  have  felt 
both  indignant  and  aggrieved.  Of  the  three 
Dora  was  by  far  the  least  sanguine ;  for,  after 
all,  such  was  the  thought  that  ever  came  back 
— if  Mr.  Templemore  wanted  her,  why  did  he 
not  speak  ?  He  could  have  spoken  as  Doctor 
Richard,  and  he  had  been  mute!  Was  not 
such  silence  significant  ?  Was  it  not  also 
very  significant  that  he  neither  came  near 
them  nor  dropped  in  upon  Dora  at  the  picture- 
gallery  ?  He  came  not  to  cheer  or  to  inter- 
rupt her  with  his  comments.  She  went  on 
with  her  drawing,  she  finished  it,  she  took  it  to 
Monsieur  Merand,  and  was  paid  for  it,  without 
having  once  seen  Mr.  Templemore.  Ah  !  how 
heavy  her  heart  felt  as  she  left  that  quiet  gal- 
lery, and  thought,  "  I  shall  need  to  come  here 
no  more !  "  How  sad  and  depressed  she  was 
when  Monsieur  Merand  put  the  money  in  her 
hand,  and  looking  at  the  gold,  she  no  longer 
felt,  "  I,  too,  have  a  gift,  and,  lo !  it  has 
brought  me  in  this  !  "  He  had  meant  well,  no 
doubt ;  but  how  sadly  it  had  ended !  And 
next  Monday  they  were  all  going  to  his  house ! 
What  for?  Doctor  Richard  had  been  their 
friend,  but  there  was,  there  could  be,  nothing 
between  them  and  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Does  not  Monsieur  Merand  want  any  more 
drawings  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Courtenay,  when  Dora 
came  home. 

"  No,  mamma,  he  does  not — and  how  are  we 
to  live  ?  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  bewildered,  Mrs. 
Luan's  sallow  check  flushed  as  she  said, 

"Mr.  Templemore  will  make  him  take 
them ! " 

"  Aunt,  you  know  Monsieur  Merand  was  no 
one." 

"  My  dear,"  airily  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  I 
feel  quite  sure  of  Mr.  Templemore's  intentions ! 
Never  mind  about  the  drawings  ! " 

Dora  would  not  argue.  She  went  to  her 
room.  The  lame  teacher's  window  was  open. 
She  could  see  him  and  his  wife  taking  their 


NANETTE'S   DEATH  BED. 


109 


frugal  dinner.  There  was  a  look  of  calm  con- 
tent about  them,  too,  which  stung  Dora,  and 
made  her  think — 

"  Oh  !  why  have  I  been  mad  ?  Doctor 
Richard  is  dead,  and  comes  no  more !  " 

But  she  would  not  be  weak,  she  would  not 
remember  that  there  had  been  a  time  when 
she  had  watched  this  domestic  happiness  as 
something  that  might  one  day  be  within  her 
reach.  She  glanced  up  toward  Nanette's 
window. 

"  I,  too,  may  live  a  poor  lonely  woman  like 
you,"  she  thought.  "  I,  too,  may  need  a  pound 
of  candles  to  cheer  me  through  the  long  dark 
night.  Well,  another  pound,  the  last,  perhaps, 
I  can  aiford  to  give,  you  shall  have." 

She  slipped  out  unseen,  made  her  little  pur- 
chase, then  stole  up  to  Nanette's  room.  The 
door  was  ajar,  Dora  pushed  it  open  and  looked 
in.  Neither  welcome  nor  token  of  recognition 
came  from  the  low  bed  on  which  Nanette  lay. 
With  a  doubtful  look  at  the  pale,  sunken  face 
resting  motionless  on  the  white  pillow,  Dora 
said  gently, 

"  Nanette,  I  bring  you  candles." 

"Nanette  needs  none.  Miss  Courtenay,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Templeraore,  whom  the  half-open 
door  had  concealed  from  Dora's  view.  "  A 
brighter  light  will  soon,  let  us  hope,  be  shining 
before  those  poor  wearied  eyes  of  hers." 

Dora,  who  had  given  a  nervous  start  on 
hearing  his  voice,  now  entered  the  room. 
Nanette  lay  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  stood  by  the  bed,  looking  down 
at  the  sick  woman  with  a  grave,  attentive  gaze. 

"  Has  she  long  been  ill,  Doctor  Richard — I 
mean  Mr.  Templemore  ?  "  asked  Dora. 

"  Call  me  Doctor  Richard  here,  Miss  Courte- 
nay. Nanette  has  been  ill  two  days.  She  sank 
into  this  stupor  an  hour  ago.  Till  then  she 
was  quite  conscious.  Poor  old  Nanette  !  That 
woman  had  a  fine,  proud  nature,  Miss  Courte- 
nay. Her  incessant  lament  all  night  was  that 
she  had  not  been  able  to  work  to  the  last. 


But  she  had  her  weakness  too.  She  begged 
hard  not  to  be  taken  to  the  hospital,  and 
when  I  gave  her  my  word  of  honor  to  save 
her  from  this  calamity,  her  gratitude  knew  no 
bounds.  She  actually  gave  me  that  fine  enamel 
which  is  so  like  you.  Do  you  know  if  she  has 
any  relatives  to  whom  I  can  make  compensa- 
tion for  a  gift  so  valuable  ?  " 

"No,  she  has  none.  But  Doctor  Richard, 
is  she  dying  ?  " 

"She  is,  Miss  Courtenay.  You  surely  do 
not  regret  to  see  the  prison  gate  opened,  and 
the  poor  captive  set  free  ?  Think  of  her  sad, 
lonely  life,  and  say  if  it  be  not  an  act  of  God's 
mercy  to  call  her  away  to  liberty  ! " 

"  Why  did  I  not  come  near  her  all  this 
time  ?  "  thought  Dora  with  keen  self-reproach 
— "  why  was  I  absorbed  in  my  own  thoughts, 
and  did  I  forget  this  poor  creature  whom  God 
seemed  to  have  thrown  on  my  kindness  ?  " 

"  I  might  perhaps  have  saved  her,"  resumed 
Mr.  Templemore,  after  a  pause ;  "  though  ill- 
ness at  her  age  is  too  often  fatal ;  but  Petit 
had  been  with  her.  Petit,"  he  contmued, . 
answering  Dora's  questioning  look,  "  is  a  roan 
whom  science  has  Ucensed  to  kill.  In  plain 
speech,  he  is  a  doctor  by  his  diploma  only, 
but  in  nothing  else.  Miss  Courtenay,  I  do 
not  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  this  man  deals 
out  death.  I  have  seen  his  handiwork,  and  I 
have  often  thought  with  horror  that  my  little 
Eva  might  fall  into  his  hands.  It  is  not  likely, 
to  be  sure ;  but  I  once  saw  a  child — a  beautiful 
child  Avhom  that  man  had  murdered,  lying  dead 
before  me  in  this  very  city,  and  the  mother's 
cry  of  agony  I  never  shall  forget." 

"  And  is  there  no  means  to  prevent  that  ?  " 
asked  Dora,  horrified. 

"  What  means  ?  He  is  well  known  to  med- 
ical men  ;  but,  like  all  false  prophets,  he  has 
his  disciples,  chiefly  amongst  the  iguoraut  and 
the  poor ;  and  as  the  man  is  not  really  cruel 
or  bad-hearted,  but  simply  stupid  and  ignorant, 
he  cheats  himself  as  well  as  his  adherents." 


no 


DORA. 


"And  did  he  kill  this  poor  creature  too, 
Mr.  Templemore ! "  indignantly  exclaimed 
Dora. 

"  That  I  dare  not  say,  but  I  should  not 
wonder  if  he  did.  However,  he  affronted  her, 
and  so  she  sent  for  me  ;  but  I  am  powerless." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  which  made  Na- 
nette's heavy  breathing  very  distinct.  The 
sun  was  near  its  setting,  a  gorgeous  glow 
from  the  west  filled  the  poor  little  room,  and 
a  rosy  flush  fell  on  the  dying  woman's  face. 
From  the  spot  where  she  stood  Dora  could 
look  down  at  Madame  Bertrand's  house,  and 
see  her  own  room  through  the  window,  which 
she  had  left  open.  That  room  was  still 
haunted  with  fond  dreams  and  sad  regrets 
and  struggles  for  self-subjection,  and  what 
did  they  all  seem  now  when  she  looked  at 
Nanette?  Seventy-three  years  of  care  and 
poverty  and  bitter  trials  were  written  in  that 
thin  worn  face  before  her;  but  the  story 
would  soon  be  blotted  out  by  the  hand  of 
death,  and  what  trace,  what  token  would  be 
left  of  it  then  upon  earth  ?  Did  it  matter  so 
much  to  be  blest  or  wretched  when  this  was 
the  end  ? 

Happy  are  they  who  can  take  such  lessons, 
and  who  '-do  not  feel,  like  the  French  king, 
that  he  must  change  the  site  of  a  palace,  be- 
cause the  spbes  of  Saint  Denis,  where  his 
predecessors  were  buried,  are  in  view.  The 
haughty  Louis  Quatorze  rebelled  under  that 
memento  mori.  Was  it  not  enough  to  know 
that  he  must  go  down  some  day  to  those  chill 
dark  vaults,  and  sleep  there  with  all  the 
kings  and  queens  of  his  race? — was  it  not 
enough  to  know  this  ? — must  a  young  sov- 
ereign, with  La  Yalli^rcs  and  Montespans, 
and  dreams  of  conquest  to  boot,  be  forever 
told  that  he  was  mortal,  and  must  die  ?  It 
was  too  hard,  surely,  and  not  to  be  endured 
unless  by  some  ascetic  or  careless  monarch 

one  full  of  heaven  or  reckless  of  death a 

Saint  Louia  or  a  Henri  Quatre. 


But  not  so  felt  Dora.  Every  deep,  earnest, 
and  religious  impxdse  of  her  nature  rose  and 
was  strong  within  her  as  she  stood  by  this 
death-bed.  She  scorned  her  own  dreams  as 
she  looked  up  at  Mr.  Templemore.  She  tri- 
umphed over  them  and  trampled  them  with 
a  ruthless  foot.  From  that  hour  forth  there 
was  a  change  in  her  both  strong  and  deep. 
Something  she  could  not  conquer,  because 
even  self-subjection  has  its  limits,  but  all  that 
will  can  rule  she  mastered,  and  the  power 
then  acquired  she  let  go  no  more. 

Mr.  Templemore,  too,  had  his  thoughts. 

"  And  this  is  the  end  of  youth  and  beauty !  " 
he  could  not  help  thinking,  as  he  looked  at 
Nanette,  and  from  her  to  Dora  with  her 
blooming  face  and  her  pensive  gray  eyes,  and 
that  hair  of  brown  gold  which  a  blue  ribbon 
tied  back  in  the  graceful  Greek  fashion. 
"  Ah !  what  folly,  then,  it  is  to  forget  the 
brevity  of  life,  and  the  treacherous  power  of 
Time ! " 

And  Ml".  Templemore,  too,  was  right ;  for 
surely  Death  reads  the  two  lessons.  Surely 
it  teaches  us  masterdom  over  self,  and  preach- 
es the  wisdom  of  happiness.  Blessed  are 
they  to  whom  the  task  of  reconciling  those 
two  does  not  prove  too  hard ! 

Madame  Bertrand  now  came  in,  and  Mr. 
Templemore,  saying,  "  I  shall  call  in  again," 
went  away. 

"  There  goes  an  angel,"  emphatically  said 
Madame  Bertrand,  taking  a  chair,  and  settling 
herself  down .  by  the  bedside  in  the  attitude 
of  a  professional  nurse.  "  He  sat  with  Na- 
nette all  last  night.  Doctor  Richard  would 
do  anything  for  me,"  she  continued,  with  a 
certain  complacency,  and  taking  as  a  personal 
compliment  his  kindness  to  the  sick  woman ; 
"  but  it  is  wonderful  how  every  one,  save 
Monsieur  Theodore,  has  always  hked  me.  Na- 
nette, who  could  endure  no  one,  doted  on 
me." 

"  She  was  religious,"  said  Dora,  following 


DORA  READS  THE   HYMN  FOR   THE   DYING. 


Ill 


her  own  train  of  thought — "  I  am  sure  she 
loved  God.  I  remember  how  she  once  said 
to  me  that  as  she  lay  awake  at  night,  and 
saw  the  stars  shining  in  the  sky,  she  used 
to  feel  full  of  wonder  and  delight  at  the 
Almighty's  greatness." 

"  Oh !  yes,"  said  Madame  Bertrand,  nod- 
ding ;  "  she  was  so  pious,  and  so  cross,"  she 
added,  in  a  breath.  "  She  asked  for  the  Cure 
at  once,  poor  soul !  He  wanted  to  send  some 
one  to  sit  up  with  her,  but  Nanette  would  be 
alone.  Luckily  she  took  a  fancy  to  Doctor 
Richard,  who  stayed  with  her  to  oblige  me." 

"  Are  you  staying  with  her  now,  Madame 
Bertrand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  cousin  will  cook  madame's  din- 
ner." 

The  words  recalled  Dora  to  the  necessity  of 
going  home.  She  was  silent  concerning  Na- 
nette's story.  Mrs.  Courtenay  could  never  un- 
derstand how  people  could  be  ill,  and  got 
irritable  when  they  ventured  on  dying.  Be- 
sides, she  now  indulged  in  such  bright  antici- 
pations concerning  their  visit  to  Les  Roches — 
everything  was  to  be  so  happy,  and  so  delight- 
ful, and  so  charming — that  Dora  could  not  help 
smiling  as  she  Ustened  to  her. 

"  My  dear  little  mother,"  she  thought,  with 
a  half  sigh,  "how  happy  I  shall  be,  spite  of  it 
all,  if  I  can  but  make  you  happy !  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  went  to  bed  early,  and  thus 
Dora  could  go  and  see  Nanette  again  without 
saddening  her  mother's  cheerful  mood.  Mrs. 
Luan,  indeed,  stared,  and  looked  up  from  her 
patchwork  as  Dora  left,  but  she  put  no  ques- 
tion. Her  niece  often  went  and  prayed  of  an 
evening  in  Notre  Dame  before  it  was  closed 
for  the  night,  and  such,  Mrs.  Luan  concluded, 
now  was  her  errand. 

But  the  divine  presence  .of  Him  who  came 
to  suffer  with  and  for  the  afiOicted  ia  not  con- 
fined to  temples  and  tabernacles  built  by  man's 
hand.  Dora  knew  that  we  find  Him  in  the 
homes  of  the  needy,  in  the  lazax-house,  in  the 


prison,  and  that  it  is  the  weakness  of  our  faith 
and  the  coldness  of  o!ir  hearts  that  will  not  let 
us  seek  Him  there. 

Madame  Bertrand  had  ht  a  candle,  but  she 
had  forgotten  to  snuff  it,  and  its  long  wick 
and  dull  yellow  light  looked  dismal  in  the  nar- 
row room. 

"  It  is  melancholy  here,  mademoiselle,"  said 
Madame  Bertrand,  as  Dora  came  in;  "poor 
Nanette  cannot  say  a  word.  Then  I  do  not 
like  to  think  that  she  is  going  to  die.  Look 
at  her  bit  of  a  body — does  it  not  seem  hard 
there  should  be  no  more  room  for  her  ?  But 
there  is  not.  Some  one  else  is  being  bom  just 
now,  and  Nanette  must  make  way.  I  shall 
miss  her.  I  used  to  like  seeing  her  go  by 
leaning  on  her  stick,  scolding  the  children. 
Now,  poor  soul,  she  cannot  help  herself." 

No,  she  could  not,  indeed.  Nanette  had 
already  entered  that  shadowy  region  where 
human  will  is  weak,  and  Dora  thought,  as  she 
looked  at  her,  that  she  was  travelling  very 
fast  indeed  toward  that  deeper  darkness  in 
which  it  becomes  powerless.  Something  in 
Dora's  face  told  Madame  Bertrand  the  nature 
of  her  thoughts. 

She  rose  and  looked  at  the  sick  woman,  and 
shook  her  head. 

"  I  believe  it  will  soon  be  over,  mademoi- 
selle," she  whispered  beneath  her  breath. 
"  Will  you  read  the  prayer  to  her  ?  " 

"  What  prayer  ?  "  asked  Dora,  rather  star- 
tled. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  a  prayer  exactly,  I  mean 
the  '  Go  forth,  thou  Christian  soul ! '  She 
wanted  me  to  read  it  this  morning,  and  I  said 
she  was  not  to  think  of  these  things  ;  but  to 
got  well  again.  And  still  she  wanted  it,  but 
you  see  I — I  could  not — and  will  you  read 
it?" 

She  put  a  prayer-book  in  Dora's  hands,  and 
Dora,  though  very  white  and  pale,  said  not 
nay.  Yes,  she  would  read  to  the  dying  and 
unconscious  woman  that  solemn  and  pathetic 


112 


DORA. 


adjuration  which  had  been  appointed  for  the 
dying  Christian.  Her  brother  had  passed 
away  to  his  rest — not  unprepared  she  hoped — 
but  without  the  tender  and  holy  rites  of  the 
Church,  without  a  sister's  loving  voice  to  call 
down  Heaven's  aid  for  the  traveller  on  that 
last  trying  journey;  but  Xanette  had  been, 
and  should  be  still  more  favored.  She  bad  been 
strengthened  with  the  bread  of  life,  and  even 
though  she  heard  it  not,  Dora  could  now  bid 
her  go  forth  to  her  eternal  home  in  holy  Sion. 
She  would  summon  every  choir  of  angels  to 
receive  her,  she  would  bid  holy  saints  and 
martyrs,  and  the  greatest  and  the  purest, 
welcome  their  poor  mortal  sister  to  the  house 
of  the  one  Father;  she  would  ask  for  this 
little  despised  old  woman  such  honor  and  such 
reverence  as  kings  themselves  never  get  upon 
earth. 

She  knelt,  and  opening  the  book  she  began 
reading,  in  a  voice  which,  though  tremulous 
and  low  at  first,  grew  in  power  as  she  pro- 
ceeded. Far  away  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  a 
French  soldier's  drum  was  calling  in  the  men 
to  the  barracks.  In  the  street  below  a  work- 
man was  singing  as  he  came  home  from  work, 
and  still  Dora's  clear  voice  went  on  holding 
forth  heavenly  promises,  and  bringing  down 
the  Divine  presence  to  that  humble  sick-room. 
And  so  whilst  poor  Nanette's  soul  was  passing 
away,  all  the  sounds  blended  around  her,  as 
in  the  old  media;val  chorus,  where  the  tenor 
or  the  soprano  sang  of  love,  the  barytone  of 
wine  and  glor}',  and  the  bass  uttered  a  solemn 
Latin  hymn,  and  the  three  produced  a  strange 
simultaneous  harmony. 

All  was  over,  and  as  Dora  uttered  the  last 
prayer,  and  closed  the  book,  a  voice  behind 
her  said, 
"Amen." 

She  was  not  startled — she  had  heard  Mr. 
Tcmplemore  enter  the  room  whilst  she  read, 
and  was  prepared  for  his  appearance. 

"So  I  come  too  late,"  he  said,  looking  tow- 


ard the  bed  ;  "  well,  I  could  have  done  noth- 
ing." 

He  spoke  with  the  gravity  which  the  pres- 
ence of  death  commands,  but  also  with  the 
composure  which  habit  gives  to  men  of  his 
profession.  Dora  looked  sad  and  thoughtful, 
and  Madame  Bertrand  was  crying,  not  exactly 
through  grief,  poor  soul,  but  because  tears 
came  easily  to  her.  This  was  all ;  there  was 
no  one  else  to  lament  that  a  lone  woman  had 
gone  to  her  rest,  and,  as  Madame  Bertrand 
philosophically  remarked,  made  way  for  some 
one  who  was  now  being  born. 

Dora's  presence  was  no  longer  needed.  So  she 
left,  after  Madame  Bertrand  had  gone  to  fetch 
a  neighbor,  who  agreed  to  sit  up  with  her.  Mr. 
Templemore  took  a  candle  and  lit  her  down 
the  dark  staircase.  He  looked  thoughtful,  and 
before  they  were  half  way  down  he  stood  still. 
"Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  impressively. 
"  You  knew  Nanette  for  some  time  ;  you  kindly 
took  her  candles,  as  she  told  me.  May  I  ask 
if  she  lamented  to  you,  as  to  me,  that  she  could 
not  work  ?  " 

"  Yery  often.  Doctor  Richard."  The  name 
came  quite  naturally. 

"  Strange,  is  it  not  ?  Nanette  was  no  lady, 
you  see.  A  born  lady,  a  real  lady  dies  if  she 
must  use  or  soil  the  hands  God  gave  her  for 
ornament — not  for  use  ;  but  a  plebeian  like  Na- 
nette thinks  herself  wretched  if  she  has  to  eat 
the  bread  of  idleness  and  charity.  Well,  I 
knew  a  weaver  who,  in  his  way,  was  as  great 
an  oddity  as  our  poor  little  friend  up-stairs. 
That  man's  passion  was  to  pay  the  old  debts 
which  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  troubles  had 
bequeathed  to  him.  He  stinted  himself,  his 
wife  and  his  child,  for  that.  The  end  was  al- 
most won.  The  weakness  of  coming  prosper- 
ity was  creeping  over  him.  His  wife  actually 
bought  him  a  woollen  jacket,  and  though  he 
grumbled  at  her  prodigal  deed,  he  grumbled 
gently.  The  evenings  were  getting  chill,  and 
comfort  is  pleasant  at  fifty-three.     This  piece 


VISIT  TO   THE   GOTHIC   CHURCH. 


113 


of  extravagance  was  perpetrated  on  a  Satur- 
day in  October.  On  that  same  day  the  man 
gave  an  old  coat  to  the  village  tailor,  in  order 
that  it  might  be  made  a  new  one  of.  '  I  shall 
want  it  for  All  Saints,'  he  said.  Glimmerings 
■of  pleasure  were  in  that  man's  mind,  and  fol- 
lowed him  at  his  loom.  Over  that  bright  dawn 
came  a  sudden  darkness — the  darkness  of 
death.  On  the  Monday  evening  he  was  taken 
ill ;  on  the  Tuesday  morning  he  was  a  corpse. 
Within  that  brief  space  he  tasted  the  greatest 
bitterness  which  his  heart  could  kn'^w.  '  I 
shall  die  like  a  rogue ! '  he  said  to  me  again 
and  again;  'I  shall  die  without  having  paid 
my  debts  ! '  Miss  Courtenay,  when  I  think  of 
that  man,  with  his  nice  honor,  and  of  the  hun- 
dreds who  cheat  and  swindle  in  the  very  jaws 
of  death,  I  feel  a  sort  of  grief  and  pity  stronger 
than  I  can  tell.  I  grieve  that  some  should  be 
so  pure,  and  others  so  foul :  that  of  coins  all 
from  the  sa'me  Divine  mint,  some  should  be  of 
metal  so  sterling,  and  others,  alas  !  so  base." 

He  spoke  gravely  and  sadly,  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  banisters,  and  tlie  o^her  holding 
the  old  brass  candlestick  he  had  brought  with 
him  from  Nanette's  room.  The  pleasure  he 
found  in  thus  imparting  his  passing  thoughts 
to  Dora,  made  him  forget  that  he  was  detain- 
ing her  on  the  old  staircase.  It  was  not  the 
first  time  she  had  noticed  how  favorite  a  listen- 
er she  was  with  him ;  how  he  liked  to  think 
aloud  when  she  was  by.  That  link  of  sym- 
pathy, one  of  the  purest  which  can  exist  be- 
tween two  human  beings,  did  certainly  exist 
between  them  ;  perhrps  because  Dora  had  that 
quickness  of  intuition  which  makes  a  good 
listener.     She  now  said,  with  a  wistful  look  : 

"  But  that  weaver  did  not  die  broken-hearted, 
Mr.  Templemore — you  paid  his  debts." 

"  How  do  you  know  ? "  he  asked,  coloring 
slightly. 

"  I  do  not  know — I  only  guess." 

"  Well,  I  did.  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  resumed, 
lighting  her  down  the  staircase  as  he  spoke ; 


"  with  fourteen  pounds  sterling  I  relieved  that 
man  from  a  sense  of  disgrace,  but  he  groaned 
heavily  under  the  burden  of  the  gift.  The 
poor  fellow  longed  with  his  whole  soul  to  pay 
me;  from  that  bitterness  I  could  not  save  him, 
you  see." 

Dora  did  not  answer.  They  had  reached  the 
foot  of  the  staircase,  and  went  out  silently 
into  the  street — there  they  parted  quiet'_.y. 
Dora  found  Mrs.  Luan  sitting  up  for  her.  / 

"  Were  you  in  the  church  all  that  Vime  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  No  ;  I  was  with  a  sick  woman^" 

"  Was  Mr.  Templemore  there/?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was."  / 

Mrs.  Luan's  face  almos^  brightened;  but 
Dora  was  too  full  of  her  own  thoughts  to  see 
it.  She  was  not  sad,  she  was  not  unhappy  ; 
but  it  was  long,  very  long,  indeed,  before  she 
could  fall  asleep  that  night. 


CHAPTEPw  XXI. 

It  would  have  been  hard  to  guess,  from  Mr. 
Templemore's  dark,  genial  face,  as  he  wel- 
comed his  guests  to  Les  Roches,  that  lie  and 
Dora  had  followed  poor  Nanette  to  her  grave 
that  morning.  She,  too,  looked  bright  and 
gay,  but  when  Mr.  Templemore  said,  "Eva 
has  been  dying  to  see  you — she  has  fallen  in 
love  with  you,  you  know.  Miss  Courtenay," — 
when  he  spoke  thus  in  his  most  friendly  tone, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  beaming  and  tri- 
umphant, and  whispered,  as,  she  glanced 
around  her,  "  The  mistress  of  all  this  will  be  a 
happy  woman,"  no  voice  within  Dora  said, 
Maybe  you  will  be  she.  "  The  wife  of  Doctor 
Richard  would  have  been  the  happier  woman 
of  the  two,"  was  all  she  thought.  She  would 
not  think  of  Mr.  Templemore  save  as  her  kind 
and  courteous  host;  and,  indeed,  friendly 
though  was  his  manner,  there  was  nothing  in 
it  to  justify  the  belief  that  he;  had  lured  Doror 


114 


DORA. 


to  his  house  for  the  purpose  of  love-making. 
The  attraction  which  kept  Eva  and  Fido  by 
Dora's  side  existed  for  Mr.  Templemore  too. 
He  certainly  liked  to  sit,  to  walk,  to  talk  with 
his  bright  and  genial  young  guest ;  yet  no 
more  than  Eva  or  Fido  could  he  be  said  to 
show  symptoms  of  love,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay 
and  Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  at  first  put  a  mean- 
ing in  everything,  began  to  perceive  this,  and 
to  /eel  disappointed.  Their  expectations  rose 
every  morning,  and  fell  every  night.  But 
Dora  took  each  day's  pleasure  and  happiness 
as  it  camL\  and  in  her  careless  pride  looked 
for  no  more. 

On  the  fourth  day  of  their  sojourn  at  Les 
Roches,  Mr.  Templemore  took  them  all  to  visit 
a  pretty  Gothic  church,  which  was  but  a  short 
distance  from  them  bj  rail.  The  little  house 
of  God  stood  on  a  height  above  the  vDlage  to 
which  it  belonged,  in  the  csntre  of  a  narrow 
churchyard,  and  surrounded  by  trees,  that 
gave  it  a  lone  and  sylvan  aspect.  Miss  Moore 
kept  very  close  to  Dora  and  her  brother-in- 
law  ;  but  if  she  felt  any  uneasiness,  nothing  in 
Mr.  Templemore's  conversation  on  Gothic 
architecture  and  stained  glass  justified  it. 
Dora  saw  her  aunt  watching  them  with  evident 
eagerness  and  interest.  Miss  Moore,  feeling 
perfectly  secure,  had  left  them  for  a  few  min- 
utes, and  she  thought,  with  mingled  scorn  and 
amusement, 

"Poor  aunt!  she  little  suspects  it  is  all 
about  that  old  window !  " 

Indeed,  Dora  would  have  been  very  blind  if 
she  had  not  discovered  by  this  that  the  pleas- 
ure Mr.  Templemore  took  in  her  society  was 
chiefly  an  intellectual  pleasure.  She  had  both 
judgment  and  knowledge.  She  could  under- 
stand and  appreciate  as  well  as  listen,  and 
Mr.  Templemore  was  fond  of  talking,  not  for 
its  own  sake,  not  to  say  anything,  but  as  one 
of  the  modes  in  which  thought  can  best  be 
called  forth.  Moreover,  and  whatever  his 
fcclingd  for  her  might  be,  he  liked  a  listener 


none  the  worse  for  wearing  Dora's  bright 
youthful  aspect.  She  seldom  answered  him, 
save  in  monosyllables,  but  she  had  an  eloquent 
face,  across  which  meaning  passed  with  the 
suddenness  of  light,  dark-gray  eyes,  deep  and 
earnest,  and  a  serious  yet  naive  grace  of  look 
and  attitude,  when  she  listened,  which  gave 
her  something  of  the  irresistible  charm  of 
childhood.  There  were  subtle  distinctions, 
and  though  some  of  them  escaped  Dora,  her 
perceptions  were  too  fine  not  to  tell  her  much 
which  those  around  her  did  not  suspect. 

But  Mrs.  Luan,  whose  feelings  were  neither 
keen  nor  delicate,  saw  matters  very  differently. 
She  watched  her  niece  and  Mr.  Templemore 
with  the  utmost  eagerness,  and  her  face  dark- 
ened when  Miss  Moore  suddenly  joined  them. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Templemore,"  eagerly  said  this 
lady,  as  if  to  account  for  her  abrupt  approach, 
"  do  tell  US  the  legend  of  this  church — about 
the  devil,  you  know." 

"  Oh  !  pray  tell  it ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
joining  them — "  I  do  so  like  legends  about 
him!" 

"Oh!  this  is  the  old  story.  The  devil 
helped  the  architect  to  build  this  church  on 
the  usual  terms,  but  instead  of  fulfilling  his 
contract,  the  shabby  architect  applied  to  a 
holy  monk,  who  released  him,  and  sent  the 
devil  away  discomfited."  ^ 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  disappointed. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  she  said  a  little  plaintively, 
"  how  they  do  cheat  him  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  too  bad,"  replied  Mr.  Temple- 
more, gravely. 

There  was  no  more  to  be  seen  ;  they  left  the 
church,  and  Mrs.  Luan  seized  the  first  oppor- 
tunity she  could  find  to  join  her  niece.  She 
took  her  arm,  held  her  fast,  and  with  some 
sudden  force  compelled  her  to  stand  still  in 
the  path  whilst  the  others  went  on. 

"  Well  ? "  she  said,  staring  eagerly  in  her 
face. 

"  Well,  aunt  ? "  composedly  replied  Dora. 


EVA  BECOMES  MISS  COURTENAY'S  COUSIN. 


115 


"  You  know  my  meaning  ! "  excitedly  re- 
sumed Mrs.  Luau. 

"  Yes,  aunt ;  and  here  is  my  answer  :  he  will 
as  soon  make  love  to  you  as  he  ever  will  to  me." 

Mrs.  Luan  heard  her  in  some  consternation, 
and  Dora  availed  herself  of  the  feeling  to  dis- 
engage her  arm  from  her  aunt's  hold,  and  join 
the  rest  of  the  party. 

"  We  are  to  dine  at  the  sign  of  the  '  White 
Horse,' "  breathlessly  said  Eva,  running  up  to 
Dora.  "  Papa  is  sure  you  will  like  dining 
once  at  a  French  village  inn." 

"  I  shall  like  it  of  all  things,"  gayly  replied 
Dora. 

The  "  White  Horse  "  stood  at  the  entrance 
of  the  village.  It  was  such  an  inn  as  painters 
delight  in ;  an  old,  low,  straggling  house,  with 
heavy  gable  ends,  beneath  which  lurked  deep 
shadows.  Its  once  red  brick  had  been  baked 
by  time  into  a  mellow  brown  tone ;  its  small 
irregular  windows  had  greenish  diamond  panes, 
that  now  gave  back  the  sunset  brightness; 
and  its  tall  chimney-stacks  sent  forth  wreaths 
of  blue  smoke,  which  drifted  gently  in  the 
westerly  wind. 

Everything  about  this  quiet  house  wore  a 
peaceful  and  friendly  aspect.  It  stood  by  the 
roadside,  shadowed  by  two  broad  trees,  facing 
the  south,  and  looking  strangely  snug  and 
homely.  Hens  cackled  in  front  of  the  open 
door,  through  which  you  saw  the  fire  burning 
brightly  on  the  kitchen  hearth ;  ducks  swam 
in  a  shallow  rippling  pond,  and  an  old  gray 
donkey  was  tied  to  one  of  the  trees,  and  vainly 
stretched  his  neck  to  reach  a  bundle  of  hay 
tantalizingly  thrown  on  the  green  sward  before 
him.  A  warm  and  rather  stormy  sunset  glow 
came  streaming  from  the  west,  lighting  up  the 
winding  road  with  its  level  rays,  giving  Vene- 
tian splendor  to  the  brick  front  of  the  inn,  and 
turning  into  misty  gold  the  deep  purple  of  the 
Undulating  background  of  wide  plain. 

The  landlady  came  out  all  smiles  to  meet 
her  guests,  and  show  them  into  a  broad  low 


room,  with  windows  looking  over  the  strag- 
gling village  street,  and  across  which  vine- 
leaves  made  a  chequered  screen.  The  cloth 
was  laid,  and  a  tureen  full  of  rustic  but  deli- 
cious soup  was  smoking  on  the  table.  Eva 
asked  to  be  lifted  up  to  peep  at  its  brown  con- 
tents, and  Fido  turned  up  his  nose  and  snuffed 
with  evident  approbation. 

"  Oh  !  how  charming ! "  cried  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay,  clasping  her  hands  with  rapture. 

Dora,  too,  looked  gay  and  merry.  A  hard 
future  enough  lay  before  her,  and  she  knew  it ; 
but  she  was  young  and  buoyant,  and  she  could 
snatch  its  delight  out  of  the  present  time,  nor 
darken  the  bright  to-day  with  the  gloom  of  to- 
morrow. Mrs.  Luan,  however,  was  black  as  a 
thuuder-cloud,  and  Miss  Moore  had  something 
to  do  not  to  look  surprised  and  bored.  It  was 
just  like  Mr.  Templemore  to  bring  them  back 
to  the  ways  of  that  old  poverty  which  they 
had  both  gone  through,  and  of  which  she  so 
disliked — hated  would  be  too  strong  a  word. 
Miss  Moore  hated  nothing — the  very  remem- 
brance. But  spite  these  two,  the  dinner — a 
very  good  one — was  a  merry  meal.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore was  as  joyous  as  a  schoolboy,  and 
Dora  as  gay  as  a  lark.  Did  she  really  feel  in 
such  high  spirits,  or  did  she  want  to  convince 
her  aunt  that  she  was  heart-free  ?  There 
might  be  something  in  this,  and  yet  it  was  im- 
possible to  look  at  her  bright  face,  and  hear 
her  clear  ringing  laugh,  and  not  believe  in  the 
sincerity  of  her  mirth.  A  doubt  on  the  sub- 
ject never  came  near  Mr.  Templemore;  and 
when  dinner  was  over,  and  they  all  left  the 
inn  and  walked  slowly  toward  the  station,  Eva, 
as  usual,  clinging  to  Dora's  side,  and  Fido 
wagging  slowly  behind  her,  he  purposely  lin- 
gered by  her  to  say — 

"  I  wish,  Miss  Courtenay,  you  would  let  me 
consider  myself  a  sort  of  relation  of  yours  ;  I 
am  your  uncle's  nephew  by  Carriage,  you 
know.  I  wish  you  would  let  my  little  Eva 
have  cousinship  with  you." 


116 


DORA. 


"With  great  pleasure,"  replied  Dora,  smil- 
ing ;  but  her  look  unconsciously  added,  "  why 
BO?" 

"  Perhaps  she  might  acquire  with  the  title 
some  of  your  happy  gift  of  enjoyment,"  he 
said,  answering  the  question ;  "  you  bare  it  in 
a  rare  de^ee,  even  for  the  daughter  of  an 
Irishman  and  of  a  Frenchwoman." 

Dora  smiled  again,  but  this  time  there  was 
triumph  and  pride  in  the  smile.  Yes,  she  had 
so  far  prevailed  over  herself,  she  had  so  deeply 
buried  every  pining  hope,  every  vain  regret, 
that  he  could  say  this. 

And  thus  Eva  called  her  Cousin  Dora,  to 
Miss  Moore's  amazement  and  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
delight.  But  Mrs.  Luan  was  not  satisfied. 
This  man  was  enjoying  her  brother's  fortune, 
no  explanation  of  Dora's  could  remove  this 
impression  from  her  narrow  mind ;  he  w^as 
rolling  in  wealth,  whilst  John,  poor  John,  who 
had  written  to  her  that  morning  that  he  was 
coming  to  see  her — or  Dora,  perhaps,  but  he 
did  not  say  so — was  toiling  in  London.  Should 
he  then  be  allowed  to  go  on  triiJing  thus  with 
her  niece,  leaving  .the  great  peril  of  a  marriage 
between  her  and  John  still  impending,  like  a 
sword  of  Damocles  ?  Again  and  again  the 
stubborn  voice  which  often  spoke  within  Mrs. 
Luan  said  "No." 

To  afk  an  agreeable  girl  to  be  adopted 
cousin  to  one's  little  daughter  is  a  very  remote 
step  on  the  road  to  courtship.  Sanguine 
though  Mrs.  Courtenay  felt,  she,  too,  thought 
so  when  she  exchanged  comments  with  Mrs. 
Luan  on  thid  incident.  !5o  a  consultation  was 
held  by  these  ruling  powers,  and  therein  it 
•was  ordered  that  Mr.  Templemorc's  backward- 
ness— for  Mrs.  Coui-tenay  had  not  the  faintest 
doubt  of  his  intentions — all  lay  to  Miss  Moore's 
account.  How  could  Mr.  Templemore  speak 
when  Miss  Moore  showed  an  affection  for 
Dora's  society,  which  rivalled  Fido's?  It  might 
be  politeness,  but  Mrs.  Courtenay  thought  it 
downright  planning. 


Mrs  Luan  was  silent;  she  did  not  complain 
of  the  enemy,  but  she  acted,  and  Miss  Moore, 
who  looked  on  this  stupid,  heavy  woman  with 
the  most  complacent  contempt,  fell  into  the 
first  snare  spread  before  her.  Nothing  was 
more  easily  done. 

Miss  Moore  objected  to  raw  starch,  and  had 
said  so  in  Mrs.  Luan's  hearing ;  and  so  Dora's 
aunt,  with  a  stolidity  which  defied  penetration, 
declared,  as  they  were  all  sitting  in  the  gar- 
den one  afternoon,  admiring  the  last  autumn 
flowers,  that  she  bad  just  seen  Marie,  the 
French  maid,  throwing  water  on  the  starch 
instead  of  boiling  it.  Miss  Moore  heard,  be- 
lieved, and  was  gone.  But  unluckily  little 
perverse  Eva  at  once  came  and  took  the  place 
her  aunt  had  left  vacant  on  the  bench  by 
Dora,  and  rested  her  head  on  the  young  girl's 
shoulder,  evidently  intending  to  remain  thus. 
Starch  boiled  or  unboiled  would  not  lure  Eva 
away,  and  Mrs.  Luan  was  like  Moliere's  Mar- 
quis, her  impromptus  were  all  most  leisurely 
concocted ;  so  she  stood  looking  on  bewil- 
dered, till  Mrs.  Courtenay  fortunately,  but  most 
unconsciously — she  was  too  thoughtless  for  a 
plot — came  to  her  assistance. 

"  Eva,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  you  have  not 
shown  me  your  flower-garden." 

"  This  way,"  cried  Eva,  jumping  down  with 
great  alacrity,  and  showing  Mrs.  Courtenay 
the  way.  Mrs.  Luan  followed;  we  need  not 
say  how  strong  an  interest  she  took  in  Eva's 
garden,  and  thus  Dora  remained  alone  with 
Mr.  Templemore.  She  rose  at  once.  A  nerv- 
ous emotion  always  seized  and  mastered  her 
when  she  was  alone  wilh  Mr.  Templemore. 

They  stood  on  the  edge,  and  within  the 
shade  of  the  green  world  which  enclosed  the 
little  chaltau  and  its  flowery  garden.  The 
red  sunlight  lit  up  the  brown  li'ont  of  the 
building,  and  guve  gorgcousness  to  its  walls, 
flights  of  steps,  vases,  and  flowers.  The  glass 
window-panes  were  turned  into  sheets  of  fire, 
the  weather-cocks  on  the  turrets  were  rods  of 


MR.   TEMPLEMORE'S  PROPOSAL. 


117 


solid  gold.  Every  thing  looked  enchanting 
and  splendid,  and  the  thin,  yellow  leaves  on  a 
tree  beyond  the  house  quivered  on  a  back- 
ground of  blue  air  as  softly  and  as  tenderly  as 
if  fanned  by  breezes  of  spring.  Dora  admired 
the  beautiful  picture,  but  she  admired  in  si- 
lence; she  now  cared  to  praise  nothing  that 
belonged  to  Mr.  Templemore. 

"Miss  Courtenay,"  he  suddenly  remarked, 
"  would  you  Hke  to  live  at  Les  Roches — I 
mean  all  the  year  round  ?  " 

He  spoke  earnestly,  but  quite  frankly,  his 
eyes  meeting  hers  in  all  honesty  of  purpose. 
Dora  felt  her  face  burn,  but  she  replied  quietly ; 

"Les  Roches  must  have  winter  as  well  as 
summer  attractions." 

Mr.  Templemore  did  not  seem  satisfied. 

"Would  you  like  it?"  he  urged;  then, 
without  giving  her  time  to  reply,  he  added, 
"Pray  hear  me  before  you  say  yes  or  no." 

Was  it  possible  ?  Had  the  moment  come  ? 
Were  her  aunt's  predictions,  and  her  mother's 
wishes,  and  her  own  secret  ill-conquered  hopes 
and  desires  so  soon  to  be  fulfilled?  She  stood 
still,  listening  so  intently  that  her  breath 
seemed  gone.  But  it  fared  with  her  as  with 
the  Arab  maiden  whose  story  she  had  once 
..  read.  Whilst  her  pitcher  was  filling  at  the 
well,  she  was  borne  to  a  delightful  island, 
thence  removed  to  a  dreary  wilderness,  im- 
prisoned in  an  enchanted  tower,  and  after  un- 
dergoing every  happy  and  sorrowful  variety 
of  adventure,  brought  back  to  the  well  before 
her  pitcher  was  full. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  know  you  and  not  ad- 
mire you.  Miss  Courtenay ;  impossible  not  to 
appreciate  the  extraordinary  mixture  of  origi- 
nal talent  and  good  sense — for  one  often  ex- 
cludes the  other — which  is  in  you.  Do  not 
therefore  think  me  too  selfish  if  I  wish  in  some 
measure  to  appropriate  gifts  so  rare.  Will 
you  undertake  the  ch.irge  of  my  little  Eva's 
education  ?  " 

Whilst  he  spoke,  Dor^,  like  the  Arab  girl. 


went  through  every  vicissitude.  Hope  soared 
on  happy  wings  to  empyreal  heights,  then 
sank  down  prostrate,  a  ciiained  captive. 
Whilst  he  spoke,  and  the  sound  of  his  words 
fell  on  the  air,  a  splendid  vision  faded  into 
darkness,  a  palace  of  delight  ^as  laid  low, 
and  by  the  shock  of  the  ruin  Dora  felt  how 
deep  in  her  heart  its  foundations  had  been. 

Mr.  Templemore  took  her  silence  for  that 
of  consideration,  and  he  respected  it ;  but  he 
looked  at  her  anxiously. 

There  was  not  a  particle  of  foolish  senti- 
ment about  Dora.  She  carried  a  clear  posi- 
tiveness  in  her  feehngs,  though  they  were  so 
warm  and  ardent.  Romantic  she  was  in  her 
love  of  the  strange  and  the  wonderful ;  she  had 
al^o  a  touch  of  poetry  that  lingered  around 
her,  and  gave  her  the  fresh  fragrance  of  a  wild 
flower ;  but  sentimental  she  was  not.  Bitter 
and  cruel  though  was  the  shock  she  had  re- 
ceived, she  rallied  from  it  almost  at  once; 
and  what  was  more,  she  indulged  in  no  illu- 
sions. The  man  who  wanted  her  to  be  his 
child's  governess  was  not  a  lover,  and  never 
would  be  one.  She  turned  to  Mr.  Temple- 
more, and  she  answered  with  a  smile : 

"  I  am  not  qualified — I  have  never  taught." 

"And  it  is  that  which  helps  to  make  you 
so  invaluable,  Miss  Courtenay." 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  mother,"  said  Dora, 
gravely  ;  "  besides — " 

"Excuse  me,"  he  interrupted,  "I  never 
contemplated  that  you  and  Mrs.  Courtenay 
should  part.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have 
had  an  apartment  prepared  for  her,  and  an- 
other for  you  and  Eva.  I  was  not  so  presump- 
tuous as  to  feel  sure  of  you,  but  the  illusion, 
if  it  was  one,  was  so  pleasant  that  I  could  no't, 
or  rather  that  I  would  not  forbear  indulging 
in  it." 

"  You  forget  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Luan." 

"  Is  not  Mrs.  Luan  going  to  England  to  join 
her  son  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Templemore.  "  She 
told  me  so  this  morning;." 


118 


DOKA. 


But  Mrs.  Luan  had  told  Dora  nothing  of  the 
kind.  She  had,  as  with  a  presentiment  that 
her  ungracious  presence  might  mar  all,  spoken 
to  Mr.  Templeraore ;  but  to  her  niece,  to  her 
sister-in-law,  she  had  not  so  much  as  read  a 
line  of  John's  letter.  Dora  was  taken  by  sur- 
prise, and  her  heart,  too,  felt  heavy  and  sad. 
It  was  natural  that  when  means  failed,  Mrs. 
Luan  should  go  and  join  her  son ;  but  it  was 
also  a  token  that  Dora's  fortunes  were  very 
low  indeed.  No  doubt  Mr.  Templemore 
thought  so  too.  No  doubt  not  caring  to  em- 
ploy her  any  longer  at  the  Musee,  he  had  hit 
on  these  means  to  be  useful  to  her.  Dora's 
color  deepened  at  the  thought,  and  there  was 
a  sudden  light  in  her  eyes,  as,  looking  up,  she 
said — 

"  No — it  cannot  be." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  so  disappointed  that 
Dora  could  not  think  he  had  simply  meant  to 
obhge  her. 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  urged,  "  do 
think  over  this,  and  consult  with  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay." 

Dora  assented,  and  half  smiled  at  the  thought 
of  Mrs.  Courtenay's  indignant  amazement  when 
she  should  hear  the  news.  And  yet  why  be 
angry  with  him?  It  was  no  crime  of  his  that 
they  were  poor,  and  that  Dora  must  work  to 
live.  In  making  such  a  proposal  he  only  as- 
sumed the  privilege  of  friendship.  If  he  had 
been  her  cousin,  indeed,  he  could  have  done 
it,  and  neither  her  aunt  nor  her  mother  would 
have  wondered. 

"  I  will  not  be  proud,"  thought  Dora,  tak- 
ing herself  to  task  at  something  which  rose 
within  her  and  made  her  heart  swell.  "  I 
will  remci^er  his  goodness  to  us  all,  and 
refuse  or  accept  his  offer  from  no  mean  or 
ungenerous  motive ! " 

Eva  now  ran  to  meet  them,  exclaiming  in 
great  glee, 

"  Mrs.  Luan  says  my  garden  is  beautiful ! 

beautiful ! " 


■  Beautiful !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Luan,  coming 


up. 


She  gave  Dora  a  furtive  glance  ;  her  niece 
looked  flushed  and  pensive — Mrs.  Luan  liked 
these  signs.  Dora,  indeed,  was  both  grave 
and  quiet  during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  but 
she  was  scarcely  aware  of  it  henself,  and  she 
bad  retired  to  her  room  for  the  night,  and 
sat  by  the  window  thinking  over  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  proposal,  when  the  sudden  entrance 
of  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan  made  her 
look  up  in  some  surprise  at  this  joint  visit. 

"  My  dear,  we  are  come  to  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  sitting  down.  "  We  saw  Mr. 
Templemore  talking  to  you  so  very  earnestly, 
and  though  we  can  guess  what  it  was  all  about, 
still  we  want  to  know." 

"  Know  what,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Did  not  Mr;  Templemore  propose  to 
you  ?  " 

"  He  made  a  proposal ;  but — " 

"My  dear,"  almost  screamed  her  mother, 
raising  her  shrill  little  voice,  and  clasping  her 
hands  in  alarm,  "  don't  say  that  you  have  not 
accepted  him ! " 

"  Mr.  Templemore  made  a  proposal  which 
I  did  not  accept,"  began  Dora ;  "  but — " 

Mrs.  Luan  groaned,  and  sank  down  on  a 
chair. 

"  The  idiot  has  refused  him,"  she  said ; 
"  a  man  who  has  a  thousand  a  year  ! " 

Mr.  Templemore  had  more ;  but  Mrs. 
Luan's  imagination  could  not  go  beyond  a 
thousand.  Dora  looked  at  her  aunt  with  just 
a  touch  of  quiet  disdain. 

"  Mr.  Templemore  has  asked  me  to  be 
Eva's  governess,"  she  said,  "  and  I  have  not 
accepted."  * 

Mrs.  Courtenay  opened  her  mouth,  and 
stared  in  blank  dismay.  Mrs.  Luan  turned 
crimson,  and  said  sullenly, 

"  I  don't  believe  it ! — 1  don't  believe  it ! " 

"  You  must  believe  it,  aunt ;  it  is  so." 

"  Eva's  governess  ! "  faintly  said  Mrs.  Cour- 


A  GOVERNESS  FOR  EVA. 


119 


tenay.  "  He  has  not  asked  you  to  be  liis 
wife  ?  " 

"No,  and  he  never  will,"  firmly  replied 
Dora.  "  The  only  question  is,  shall  I  accept 
or  not?  He  would  give  you  an  apartment 
here,  and  as  aunt,  it  seems,  is  going  to  Eng- 
land to  join  John,  the  plan  is  feasible  enough." 

"  He  is  a  very  rude  man ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  feeling  extremely  angry  with  the 
delinquent.  "  Did  you  ask  him  for  a  situa- 
tion ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not ;  but  I  did  not  ask  him 
either  to  draw  for  Monsieur  Merand,  and  be 
paid  handsomely  for  it.  Mamma,  we  must 
look  our  future  in  the  face,  and  not  quarrel 
with  our  only  friend  because  he  wants  to 
make  our  lot  les;;  hard  than  it  would  be  with- 
out him.  I  want  to  work,  but  work  I  have 
not  got.  I  have  already  thought  of  taking 
a  situation." 

"  And  leaving  me ! "  screamed  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, in  horror. 

"  Ay  !  there  it  is  !  "  replied  Dora,  much 
affected.  "We  love  each  other,  and  cannot 
bear  to  part." 

"  You  always  said  that  even  if  you  married 
we  should  remain  together,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  looking  injured. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  asked  Dora,  despond- 
ently. (|,If  girls,  poor  superfluous  creatures 
as  they  are,  were  only  drowned  like  kittens 
at  their  birth,  there  would  not  be  this  terrible 
difficulty  to  provide  work  for  them  when 
they  are  grown  upJ  you  see.  I  am  clever 
enough,  I  believe  I  can  do  twenty  things,  but 
for  all  that,  a  situation  is  the  only  door  open 
to  me.  The  drawing  made  me  happy,  oh ! 
so  happy  !  but  it  was  a  delusion,  a  dream, 
and  Mr.  Templemore  himself  dare  not  suggest 
it  again — it  is  so  patent !  " 

She  sighed,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  burst  into 
tears.  Three  kittens,  the  offspring  of  Ma- 
dame Bertrand's  cat,  had  been  ignominiously 
drowned  in  a  tub  of  water  a  fortnight  before, 


and  on  hearing  Dora  lament  that  she  had  not 
undergone  such  a  fate  at  her  birth,  Mrs. 
Courtenay  was  fairly  overpowered  by  her 
feelings. 

"Dear  mamma,"  exclaimed  Dora,  much 
concerned,  "  you  must  be  brave,  you  must ! " 

"  And  how  can  I  be  brave  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  "  when  you  talk  of  drowning  and 
kittens  in  that  dreadful  way,  and  want  to 
leave  me  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  want  to  leave  you,  but — ^" 

"  Well,  then,  why  not  take  the  situation 
Mr.  Templemore  offers  you  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  wholly  forgetting  how  angry  she 
was  with  that  gentleman — "  that  way  we  need 
not  part,  and  Les  Roches  is  a  delightful  place, 
and  I  am  sure  he  would  give  a  liberal  salary." 

Dora  was  silent,  Yes,  she  too  could  see  all 
the  advantages  of  this  scheme.  It  would  be  a 
haven  instead  of  a  stormy  journey,  peace  and 
rest  instead  of  trouble  and  toil ;  but  are  not 
these  good  sometimes,  and  is  there  not  danger 
often  lurking  in  the  smoothest  lot  ?  Danger  ! 
— what  danger  ?  asked  Pride,  and  at  once  an- 
swered :  "  I  fear  none  such.  I  stand  secure 
from  all  such  peril.  There  was  a  folly  once, 
but  I  have  thrust  it  back  so  deep,  that  it  will 
never  rise  to  light  again — ^never !  Then  speak 
not  of  danger  to  me." 

But  the  very  thought  Dora  thus  repelled 
came  back  from  Mrs.  Courtenay's  lips. 

"  My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  bright- 
ening, "  depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Templemore 
means  to  ask  you  to  marry  him,  after  all. 
Only  he  wants  to  see  how  you  can  get  on  with 
Eva  first." 

"  Mamma,"  answered  Dora,  coldly,  "  I  have 
no  wish  to  think  of  him  in  that  light — it  is  not 
right ;  besides,  I  am  proud,  and  do  not  like  it. 
Let  the  only  question  be,  shall  I,  or  shall  I 
not,  be  Eva's  governess  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  do  not  think  you  can  do  better 
than  to  say  yes — don't  you  think  so,  Mrs. 
Luan  ?  " 


120 


DORA. 


But  Mrs.  Luan  had  slipped  out  of  the  room 
unperceived. 

"  I  need  not  give  an  answer  at  once,"  said 
Dora,  looking  a  little  irresolute,  "  so  I  shall 
think  over  it." 

But  Mrs.  Courtenay,  whose  brightest  hopes 
tad  suddenly  revived,  though  she  saw  the  ex- 
pediency of  not  expressing  them  to  Dora,  could 
not  help  urging  her  daughter  not  to  hesitate 
about  such  an  offer.  In  her  opinion,  such 
hesitation  was  almost  wrong.  Dora  heard  her 
with  her  cheek  resting  on  her  left  hand,  and 
her  eyes  bent  on  the  floor.  She  thought,  with 
a  sigh  of  regret,  of  those  days  when  she  worked 
at  the  Musee  for  Monsieur  Merand,  cheered  by 
Doctor  Richard's  counsel  and  approbation.  She 
remembered  them,  and  with  them  some  idle 
fancies  in  which  she  had  then  indulged — 
dreams  in  which  she  was  Doctor  Richard's 
wife,  and  they  worked  together,  he  writing,  she 
drawing,  in  the  same  room,  both  poor,  yet 
both  happy.  What  were  Les  Roches,  and 
servants,  and  a  liberal  salary,  to  that  tender 
but  now  lost  folly  ?  For  could  she  doubt  that 
to  make  her  his  child's  instructress  had  been 
his  object  all  along  ?  That  had  been  her  value 
and  attraction  in  his  eyes. 

"  And  that  shall  be  all  I  will  now  look  at," 
thought  Dora.  "Never,  if  I  accept,  shall  I 
forget  that  position — never  ! " 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  suppose  you  will  have 
made  up  your  mind  to-morrow  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  rising,  with  a  sigh  of  apprehension. 

"  I  dare  say  I  shail  say  '  yes,'  mamma,"  re- 
plied Dora,  gravely. 

"Do,"  eagerly  said  her  mother — "  do,  my 
dear.     Good-night.     God  bless  you  !  " 

But  the  blessing  did  not  seem  to  leave  peace 
behind  it.  Dora  thought  of  her  little  inde- 
pendence, of  that  dear  liberty  for  which  the 
luxurious  comforts  of  Les  Roches  could  offer 
BO  compensation,  and  she  sighed.  Restless- 
ness followed  her  to  her  pillow,  and  chased 
away  sleep. 


"  Oh  !  if  I  could  but  say  no  ! "  she  thought^ 
with  a  yearning,  passionate  wish  for  the  sweet 
freedom  which  a  little  money  gives. 

But  even  as  she  thought  thus,  her  room 
door  opened,  and  some  one  entered  the  apart- 
ment. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  exclaimed  Dora,  in  some 
alarm. 

"  It  is  I,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan's  voice  in  the 
darkness.  She  approached  Dora's  bed,  and 
standing  there,  she  said,  "  You  must  accept 
Mr.  Templemore's  offer,  Dora  ;  and  if  you  do, 
you  will  assuredly  become  Mr.  Templemore's 
wife." 

"  Aunt  1 "  cried  Dora. 

"  Hush  !  do  as  I  say,  and  I  will  answer  for 
the  end.  When  he  sees  you  daily  he  will  love 
you ;  and  when  he  loves  you,  he  will  marry 
you." 

"  Aunt,  I  cannot — " 

"  Hush  !  I  know  you  like  him." 

Dora  was  mute,  and  whilst  her  face  flushed 
and  felt  hot  even  in  the  darkness,  whilst  her 
heart  throbbed  so  that  her  breath  seemed 
gone,  Mrs.  Luan  groped  out  of  the  room.  Dora 
sat  up  in  the  bed,  and  clasped  her  burning 
head  between  her  hands.  No,  she  could  not 
say  yes — she  could  not  stay  in  Mr.  Temple- 
more's house  with  such  predictions'  to  haunt 
her. 

"  I  will  not ! — I  will  not ! "  she  thought  again 
and  again. 

Once  more  her  room  door  opened. 

"  Aunt !  "  she  exclaimed,  agitatedly. 

But  it  was  not  Mrs.  Luan,  it  was  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, with  a  light  in  her  hand. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said  tearfully,  *'  you  must 
say  '  yes ; '  promise  me  that  you  will  say  '  yes.' 
We  shall  all  starve  if  you  do  not !  You  must 
say  '  yes.' " 

She  was  quite  hysterical,  and  the  sight  of 
her  emotion  calmed  Dora  as  by  magic. 

"Dear  mamma,"  she  said  cheerfully,  and 
kissing  her  as  she  spoke,  "  it  shall  be  yes. 


MR.   TEMPLEMORE  ON   PROGRESSIVE   SCIENCE. 


121 


And  that  yes,  spoken  for  your  sake,  will  be 
like  a  spell — It  shall  conjure  away  every  snare 
and  every  peril." 

She  spoke  resolutely,  but  not  presumptu- 
ously. That  "  yes "  did  prove  a  spell.  It 
silenced  at  once  and  forever  the  dangerous 
■wishes  which  Mrs.  Luan's  words  had  awakened 
anew  from  their  rest.  They  fled,  to  return  no 
more.  No  more  did  Hope  whisper,  though 
ever  so  faintly,  "  Why  should  he  not  learn  to 
care  for  me  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXn. 

"  Make  Eva  I'ke  yourself,  Miss  Courtenay," 
said  Mr.  Templemore  to  Dora,  the  next  day, 
as  they  stood  alone  in  the  garden — he  had 
plainly  asked  Miss  Moore  to  leave  them  there. 
"  Even  my  paternal  ambition  can  hope  for  no 
more." 

But,  spite  this  complimentary  remark,  Dora's 
face  remained  grave. 

"  I  have  said  '  yes,' "  she  replied ;  "  but 
pray  remember  how  inexperienced  I  am,  es- 
pecially in  the  modern  system  of  teaching." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Courtenay,  is  there  magic  in 
that  word  modern  ?  Is  the  present  so  very 
different  from  the  past  ?  " 

''  We  have  made  progress  in  science,  Mr. 
Templemore." 

"  None  to  speak  of.  What  are  all  the  visions 
of  political  economy,  for  instance,  to  that 
grand  thing,  the  transmutation  of  the  baser 
metals  into  gold?  You  will  stop  me  with 
modem  unbeUef,  but  I  say  it  can  be  done,  and 
has  been  done.  You  can  make  gold  or  silver, 
I  forget  which,  only  it  is  too  expensive — it 
comes  dearer  than  the  natural  thing.  Well, 
our  ancestors  had  the  cheap  process,  and  we 
have  not — that  is  all.  Then  what  are  all  our 
beautifiers,  and  enamellings,  and  Macassar 
oils,  to  the  fountain  of  youth  ?  Do  not  tell 
me  it  never  existed  unless  in  the  brain  of 
poets.     Juan  Ponce  de  Leon  fitted  out  an  ex- 


pedition, and  went  to  seek  it.  Would  he 
have  done  so  if  it  were  an  imaginary  foun- 
tain ?  " 

"Did  be  find  it?  "  asked  Dora,  demurely. 

"  No,  Miss  Courtenay ;  but  do  you  doubt 
the  existence  of  the  North  Pole  because  Sir 
John  Franklin  perished  in  going  to  it  ?  Shall 
we  call  that  band  of  heroes  and  martyrs, 
dreamers  ? — and  shall  we  think  that  people  in 
the  sixteenth  century,  which  saw  such  splen 
did  discoveries  and  such  stirring  deeds,  were 
more  foolish  than  they  are  in  the  nineteenth  ? 
And  then  the  fancy,  the  playfulness  of  inven- 
tion in  those  days !  No  black  smoking  rail- 
way engines  hissing  through  a  landscape,  but 
enchanted  cars,  that  flew  through  the  thin  air  ; 
or  wooden  horses,  with  pegs  under  their  right 
ears,  that  conveyed  you  wherever  you  wished 
to  go!  Why,  the  theme  is  endless — its  fer- 
tility is  bewildering.  Take  garroting  and  Bill 
Sykes.  Five  hundred  years  ago.  Bill  Sykes 
would  have  been  a  magician — a  cruel  one,  no 
doubt ;  but  look  at  the  superiority  of  these 
ancient  times  over  ours.  Bill  Sykes,  who  now 
knocks  you  down,  half  strangles  you,  and  after 
plundering  your  pockets,  parts  from  you  with 
a  kick  of  his  brutal  heel  on  your  prostrate 
face,  Bill  Sykes,  I  say,  would  have  '  enchanted 
you.'  Oh  !  delicious  days,  lovely  days  of  the 
olden  time,  when  you  were  '  enchanted '  by 
your  enemies — when  romantic  forests,  or  fairy 
palaces,  or  green  islands  were  ever  ready  to 
receive  you — when,  if  you  belonged  to  the  fair 
sex,  knights  and  princes  Strove  to  release  you 
from  durance  vile ;  and  if  you  were  some  rosy 
young  knight,  a  benevolent  fairy,  a  Gloriana, 
ever  beautiful  and  young,  was  sure  to  deliver 
you  in  the  end." 

"  But  all  enchantment  was  not  mesmeric, 
Mr.  Templemore,"  gayly  said  Dora ;  "  tlicrc 
was  transformation,  you  know." 

"  Ah !  you  have  me  there,  Miss  Courtenay. 
I  am  too  candid  to  deny  that  the  mere  thought 
of  being  turned  into  a  bird  or  a  four-footed  crea- 


122 


DORA. 


turc,  or  a  stupid  fish,  of  being  liable  to  be 
snared  by  the  fowler,  trussed  and  roasted  by 
the  cock,  or  even  simply  fried  in  a  pan,  is  odi- 
ous to  me.  It  would  almost  reconcile  me  to 
Bill  Sykes,  but  for  Huon  of  Bordeaux's  ivory 
horn.  That  is  my  weak  point.  All  my  life 
long  I  have  hated  bores  with  a  silent,  deadly 
hate  ;  but  I  have  been  powerless  against  them. 
I  have  met  them  on  Vesuvius,  in  Regent  Street, 
on  the  banks  of  Killarney,  and  they  have  ever 
prevailed  against  me.  The  bore  is  clad  in 
mail,  which  is  sword  and  dagger  proof.  But, 
oh !  if  I  had  that  gold-mounted  ivory  horn 
which  Oberon  gave  to  Huon,  and  which  set  all 
sinners  spinning,  how  I  could  settle  the  bore 
once  for  all !  Suppose  the  bore  comes  and 
buzzes  in  my  ear  his  foolish  inanities  concern- 
ing scenery,  suppose  he  tells  me  about  his  chil- 
dren, or,  what  is  just  as  likely,  gives  me  the 
bill  of  fare  of  that  capital  dinner  which  he  ate 
last  year  at  the  Freres  Proven9aux — instead 
of  listening  to  him  with  secret  pangs,  instead 
of  flpng  like  a  coward,  I  should  just  look  at 
him  quietly  so,  take  my  ivory  horn,  well  se- 
cured to  my  side  by  a  patent  chain  and  Bramah 
hook,  blow  one  blast,  and  leave  him  there  spin- 
ning." 

"  You  would  not  have  the  heart  to  do  it,  Mr. 
Templemore." 

"Miss  Courtenay,  as  there  is  no  spot,  no 
season,  no  hour  sacred  to  the  Bore,  so  none 
should  save  him  from  my  revenf'e." 

Dora  looked  at  him  wistfully.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  listen  so  to  Mr.  Templemore  in  that 
blooming  garden,  with  the  old  brick  chateau 
in  the  background ;  but  it  reminded  her  too 
strongly  of  the  happy  days  when  Doctor  Rich- 
ard and  she  used  to  vie  in  such  fanciful  para- 
doxes, and  she  would  rather  forget  that  time. 
She  was  to  be  the  governess  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  child,  tlien  let  her  sink  into  the  posi- 
tion, with  ail  its  advantages  and  drawbacks, 
and  be  nothing  else. 

"  But  to  return  to  Eva,"  resumed  Mr.  Temple- 


more. "  Since  the  sad  day  on  which  I  lost  her 
two  little  sisters,  she  has  been  too  much  in- 
dulged. She  has  faults,  which  she  must  out- 
grow, and  so  we  must  part  for  awhile.  I  shall 
leave  her  here  under  your  care,  and  spend  the 
winter  in  Deenab." 

Dora  started,  yet  she  had  wished  to  be  noth- 
ing but  the  governess,  and  she  had  her  wish. 
She  need  fear  no  dangerous  sweetness  in  her 
lot.  He  was  going  to  Deenah,  and  she  would 
remain  in  Les  Roches,  almost  alone  with  the 
child,  in  that  large  silent  house.  Yes,  it  was 
well,  but  how  far  the  days  in  the  Musee,  and 
at  Madame  Bertrand's,  now  seemed — how  re- 
mote !  Something,  too,  there  was  in  her  mind 
•which  she  could  not  help  uttering. 

"Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said,  turning  upon 
him  with  much  earnestness,  "  you  throw  a  great 
responsibility  upon  me." 

"  I  do,"  he  replied,  gravely  ;  "  I  feel  I  do. 
But  I  cannot  leave  the  child  to  Miss  Moore's 
care — nay,  I  will  leave  her  to  none  save  you. 
Eva  loves  you,  and  that  love,  joined  to  your 
happy  nature,  will  do  more  to  cure  her  of  her 
faults  than  all  my  preaching.  I  have  no  fear 
for  the  result — none." 

He  spoke  so  confidently,  that  Dora  felt  si- 
lenced. She  had  but  to  submit.  Her  mother 
longed  to  stay  in  Les  Roches,  and  to  enjoy  its 
comforts,  and  Mr.  Templemore  was  bent  on  se- 
curing her.  His  will  and  her  necessity  were 
both  too  strong  for  liberty. 

"  Be  it  so,"  she  said,  a  little  wistfully. 

But  Mr.  Templemore  was  too  much  pleased 
to  see  it.  He  looked  perfectly  happy  at  her 
final  consent,  and  with  a  boyi?h  eagerness 
which  gave  the  ardor  and  the  freshness  of  youth 
to  all  he  said  or  did,  he  asked  to  show  her  at 
once  the  apartments  he  had  prepared  for  her 
and  Eva,  who  now  joined  them.  The  child  was 
all  alive  with  curiosity  and  excitement. 

For  the  last  month  these  mysterious  rooms 
had  been  locked  up,  but  now  their  secrets  were 
going  to  be  disclosed. 


MISS   COURTENAY'S  REMOVAL  TO  LES  ROCHES. 


123 


"  And  I  shall  know  all  about  them,"  said 
Eva,  exulting. 

They  entered  a  room  on  the  ground-floor. 
Books,  globes,  maps,  and  a  large  slate  in  a 
frame,  said  plainly  this  was  the  school-room. 
Thence  Eva  ran  into  the  next  apartment. 

"  Oh !  what  a  pretty  room !  "  she  cried ;  "  is 
it  for  me  ?  " 

"  No.  This  sitting-room  is  destined  to  the 
lady  who  will  have  the  goodness  to  teach 
you." 

Eva  pouted,  and  Dora  looked  around  her. 
Her  future  sitting-room  was  very  graceful  and 
elegant,  and  overlooked  the  flower-garden. 

"This  is  a  delightful  apartment,"  she  said, 
gayly ;  "  but  where  is  Eva's  ?  " 

Eva  had  already  opened  a  door,  and  gone 
up  a  private  staircase,  which  gave  access  from 
the  sitting-room  to  the  first-floor,  and  thence 
she  eagerly  summoned  "  Cousin  Dora." 

Dora  went  up  and  found  three  bedrooms — 
Eva's,  the  servant's,  and  her  own.  It  was  a 
handsome  room — handsome,  yet  pleasant ;  but 
it  seemed  to  Dora  that  it  had  a  grave,  sober 
aspect,  which  made  it  a  very  difierent  apart- 
ment from  the  graceful  room  she  now  slept  in, 
as  Mr.  Templemore's  guest.  The  furniture  was 
ancient,  valuable  indeed,  but  somewhat  solemn- 
looking. 

It  was  a  corner  room,  and  each  of  its  two 
windows  commanded  a  different  prospect. 
Standing  in  the  deep  embrasure  of  one,  you 
saw  the  gates  of  the  chateau,  and  you  looked 
down  the  long  road  delving  deep  into  the  city. 
That  view  Dora  had  from  her  present  apart- 
ment. But  this,  her  future  room,  if  she  be- 
came Eva's  governess,  had  another  window 
looking  down  into  a  quiet  court,  around  which 
the  chateau  was  built.  In  the  centre  rose  a 
bubbling  fountain,  and  though  the  aspect  of 
all  she  saw  was  Norman,  and  not  Germanic, 
Dora  thought  of  Undine,  when  she  had  wedded 
Knight  Hildebrand,  and  went  home  with  him 
to  his  castle. 


"Wlien  I  feel  fooHsh  and  unhappy  I  shall 
sit  here  and  look  at  that  court  and  fountain," 
she  thought.  "  Even  as  that  water  is  enclosed 
everywhere  by  cold  stone  walls,  and  must  be 
satisfied  with  its  life  of  domestic  usefulness,  so 
must  I  not  repine  or  think  myself  ill-used  be- 
cause others  go  forth  and  wander  in  lovely 
spots  and  happy  liberty,  rt'hilst  I  bend  over 
books,  teach  a  wayward  child,  and  forget  that 
I  too  might  have  had  a  story ;  and  yet — ^yet 
oh !  how  can  I  forget  you,  my  brother  ?  How 
can  I  forget  that  if  you  had  triumphed  that 
man  would  have  been  poor,  and  would  scarcely 
have  hit  upon  me  to  be  the  governess  of  his 
child  ?  How  can  I  forget  that,  poor  or  rich,  I 
should  still  have  liked  your  conquered  enemy, 
as  I  now  cannot  help  liking  your  successful 
rival?" 

"I  don't  like  this,"  said  Eva,  peeping  out 
of  the  window,  and  drawing  back.  "  I  don't 
like  that  court  and  the  fountain  ;  do  yon. 
Cousin  Dora  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  so  much,"  replied  Dora,  with  a  smile. 
"  This  is  mine,  you  know." 

"  Are  you  the  governess.  Cousin  Dora  ? " 
cried  Eva,  amazed. 

"  Yes,  Eva,"  answered  Dora,  with  quiet 
pride ;  "  I  am  the  governess." 

Thus  it  was  decided.  Miss  Moore,  on  learn- 
ing the  news,  or  seeming  to  learn  it,  be- 
came wonderfully  kind  to  Dora — ^so  kind  that 
Mrs.  Courtenay  was  almost  tempted  to  ex- 
postulate ;  but  the  quiet  indifference  of  Miss 
Courtenay's  manner  soon  silenced  Miss  Moore 
effectually.  Coldness  is  the  strongest  weapon 
of  defence.  It  is  a  shield  of  adamant,  which 
nothing  can  pierce. 

Great  were  the  laments  of  Madame  Bertrand 
on  hearing  that  her  lodgers  meant  to  leave 
her ;  but  great,  too,  was  her  amazement  when 
Mrs.  Courtenay  informed  her  that  Doctor 
Richard  and  the  tenant  of  Les  Roches  were 
one.  Her  questions.  Was  Mr.  Templemore 
very  rich  ? — was  he  married  ? — and  the  shrewd 


124 


DORA. 


looks  she  gave  -Dora  all  the  time,  were  very 
hard  to  bear. 

"  Yes,"  she  thought,  "  all  that  might  have 
been,  but  it  must  never  be  now — never." 

Mrs.  Luan  went  to  England  the  very  day 
after  they  left  Les  Roches.  Her  haste  struck 
Dora,  though  she  was  so  far  from  guessing  its 
real  motive,  that,  as  they  parted  from  her  at 
the  station,  she  said — 

"  Aunt,  tell  John  I  am  very  angry  that  he 
did  not  come  to  see  us." 

Mrs.  Luan  nodded.  Yes,  she  would  tell 
John — she  would  be  sure  to  tell  him. 

"  Eow  odd  aunt  looked  ! "  said  Dora,  as  she 
walked  home  with  her  mother. 

But  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  seen  no  particular 
oddity  about  Mrs.  Luan ;  she  always  was  odd, 
she  said ;  and  in  the  same  breath  she  expressed 
her  relief  at  leaving  Madame  Bertrand's  mean 
little  rooms,  and  going  to  inhabit  the  broad 
lofty  chambers  of  Les  Roches.  But  when 
Dora  entered  her  room  to  bid  her  adieu,  she 
looked  at  that  quiet  room  with  fond  regret. 
?he  glanced  at  the  prim  Grisehdis,  at  the 
shabby  furniture,  at  the  gray  church  opposite, 
with  the  vine-leaves  turning  red  beneath  the 
cold  breath  of  autumn  winds,  and  she  sighed. 
At  the  lame  teacher's  window  she  would  not 
look,  but  she  glanced  up  to  Nanette's.  The 
friendly  beacon  she  had  once  seen  shining 
there  was  gone  forever,  and  with  it  had  de- 
parted some  bright  visions,  not  of  love  or  hap- 
piness, but  of  pleasant  labor  and  sweet  inde- 
pendence. 

"My  poor  little  fairy,"  she  sadly  thought, 
"  I  used  to  fancy  you  had  brought  me  in  luck 
in  exchange  for  my  milk  and  eggs;  but  I 
know  now  it  was  such  luck  as  one  reads  of  in 
Btory-books,  where  the  gold  turns  into  withered 
leaves,  and  the  fairy  palaces  you  sleep  in  at' 
night  are  gone  in  the  morning." 

"  Dora ! "  called  her  mother's  voice  in  the 
outer  room,  "  are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  I  am  coming,"  answered   Dora ;   but  the 


sparrows  she  used  to  feed,  seeing  her  stand 
by  the  open  window,  went  fluttering  past,  ex- 
pecting their  httle  pittance,  and  Dora  would 
not  disappoint  them.  She  covered  the  window- 
ledge  with  bread,  then,  with  a  last  look  and  a 
last  sigh,  she  bade  adieu  to  her  room,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life — to  liberty. 

And  yet  she  looked  happy  and  gay  when 
she  entered  Les  Roches.  For,  after  all,  hers 
was  a  happy  lot,  and  she  knew  it.  It  was 
pleasant  to  be  valued  so  highly  by  the  father, 
and  to  be  loved  so  dearly  by  the  child.  Even 
Fido's  greeting  was  grateful  to  her ;  and  then 
it  was  something  surely  that  when  one  door 
closed  upon  her,  another  should  open  so 
readily  and  so  soon.  It  was  a  relief  to  Mr. 
Templemore  to  read  the  brightness  of  all  this 
in  her  face,  as  she  arrived  with  her  mother. 
Yes,  he  felt  it  keenly ;  he  could  trust  his  child 
whilst  he  was  away  to  this  fine  joyous  nature — 
so  joyous,  and  that,  too,  Mr.  Templemore 
knew,  though  not  to  what  extent,  because  it 
was  so  brave. 

And  now  Dora  entered  the  school-room,  and 
became  queen  absolute  there.  Eva's  love  for 
her  governess  partook  of  adoration.  There 
had  never  been  so  perfect  a  being,  in  her 
opinion,  as  Dora.  Miss  Moore  looked  puzzled, 
and  scarcely  pleased,  at  this  ardent  aflPection ; 
but  Mr.  Templemore  was  both  amused  and  de- 
lighted, and  took  evident  pleasure  in  watching 
and  fostering  its  grov^th.  He  would  jestingly 
ask  Dora  to  tell  him  which  of  the  two,  Eva  or 
Fido,  loved  her  most,  or  could  do  best  without 
her  society.  And  when  Dora  would  le.ave  the 
room,  or  the  garden,  and  Eva,  howsoever  ab- 
sorbed, would  soon  look  up  from  her  book  or 
her  playthings,  shake  her  curls,  and  ask, 
"  Where  is  Cousin  Dora  ?  "  Mr.  Templemore 
would  reply,  with  a  smile  : 

"  Come,  Eva,  I  see  it  is  Fido's  affection 
which  is  the  stronger  of  tlj^e  two,  after  all ;  he 
never  lets  Cousin  Dora  out  of  his  sight,  pru- 
dent dog,  and  you  do." 


DOHA    AN1>    TIIK    CUIl.n    IJADK    HIM    ADIICU    AT    THE    GATE.  p,  125. 


MR.   TEMPLEMORE   REVISITS  DEENAH. 


125 


•'  But  Fido  does  not  love  Cousin  Dora  half 
so  much  as  I  do,"  Eva  would  cry,  in  hot  indig- 
nation ;  and  throwing  down  her  book  or  her 
doll,  she  would  go  in  pursuit  of  this  much- 
loved  cousin,  to  Mr.Templemore's  evident  sat- 
isfaction. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  put  only  one  construction 
upon  all  this,  and  felt  both  amazed  and  indig- 
nant when  Mr.  Templemore  suddenly  went 
away  one  morning.  Before  going  he  spoke  to 
Dora. 

"You  have  bewitched  Eva,"  he  said,  with  a 
kind  smile,  "  so  I  need  only  ask  you  to  go  on 
with  that  magic,  the  secret  of  which  I  will  not 
attempt  to  fathom.  I  shall  only  trouble  you 
with  two  requests :  be  so  good  as  to  teach 
Eva  to  wait  on  herself  as  much  as  possible, 
and  not  to  grow  up  into  a  helpless  young  lady  ; 
also,  if  she  should^e  unwell,  to  send  for  Doc- 
tor'Le  Roux' first, .  then  to  telegraph  to  me. 
The  rest  I  leave  to  you  ;  and  now,  before  we 
part,  forgive  me  to  have  laid  this  task  upon 
you — I  sometimes  feel  I  have  been  selfish  !  " 

"  How  so?"  composedly  asked  Dora.  "  I 
really  could  not  expect  a  better  situation  than 
that  I  have  in  your  family,  Mr.  Templemore." 

"  Pray  do  not  talk  of  it  as  a  situation,"  he 
said,  looking  slightly  disturbed. 
.  "What  else  is  it '?  "  she  replied,  with  a  smile 
of  quiet  pride.  "  Of  course  you  do  not  look 
upon  me  merely  as  a  person  to  v/hom  you 
give  a  certain  amount  of  money — nor  do  I 
think  of  mj'self  merely  as  one  who  receives  it; 
but  for  all  that,  Mr.  Templemore,  I  ^pi  the 
governess  of  your  child,  and  I  am  paid  for 
■being  so." 

.  Mr.  Templemore's  dark  cheek  flushed,  and 
he  bit  his  lip,  but  he  said  nothing. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  displeased  with  my 
frankness  ?  "  composedly  resumed  Ddra,  who 
saw  very  well  that  he  was. 

"  Oh !  not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Templemore, 
but  he  thought :  "  Miss  Courtenay  is  a  proud 
woman — a  very  proud  woman !  " 


And  now  it  was  time  for  him  to  go.  He 
would  not  let  Eva  accompany  him  to  the  sta- 
tion, Dora  and  the  child  bade  him  adieu  at 
the  gates  of  Les  Roches.  The  day  was  bleak 
and  very  dreary — such,  at  least,  it  seemed  to 
Dora,  as  she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  wished 
him  a  happy  journey.  -  But  if  the  sweet  sun- 
shine of  spring  had  been  in  the  sky,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore could  not  have  looked  brighter  and 
more  genial  than  he  looked  as  he  b^ade  them, 
farewell.  He  kissed  Eva  two  or  three  times, 
indeed,  and  with  evident  grief,  but  grief  under 
which  seemed  to  flow  a  strong  current  of  joy. 
Dora  stood  and  looked  at  the  carriage  which 
bore  him  away,  like  one  in  a  dyeam.  She  felt 
no  wish  to  lament  his  departure,  no  tempta- 
tion to  regret  his  presence,  -but.  -there  fell  a 
coldness  upon  her  like  that.of  a 'shadow ! which 
suddenly  shuts  out  a  stfcotig  sun.  She  felt 
both  lone  and  chill;  aid 'turned  , back  to  ■  the 
house  in  silence,  till  Eva's  sobs  and  tears 
roused  her  to  the  effort  of  consoling  the 
child. 

But  Eva's  grief  was  a  childish  grief — it  did 
not  last.  When  she  had  got  all  the  comfort 
she  could  out  of  Dora,  she  raised  her  head 
from  her  young  governess's  shoulder,  dried 
her  tears,  looked  about  her,  and  said,  with  a 
little  tremulous  sigh, 

"  Cousin  Dora,  I  think  I  shall  go  to  aunt 
now." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear,  do  so.'- 

She  put  down  the  child,  who  jumped  liglitly 
on  the  floor,  shook  her'  dark  curls,  and  with 
them,  no  doubt,  some  portion  of  her  sorrow ; 
then  opened  the  door  of  the  school-room,  slip- 
ped out,  and  left  Dora  alone. 
•  She  could  not  help  going  back  to  the  past,  • 
and  to  some  of  the  dreams  by  which  that  past 
had  been  haunted.  She  could  not  help  com- 
paring the  romance  of  life  witli  that  of  reality. 
How  fair'  a  beginning  she  had  had  !  She  had 
read  novels  very  like  it.  A  rich  man  in  dis- 
guise discovers  a  poor  girl  in  some  obscure 


126 


DORA. 


nook,  and  removes  every  thorn  from  her  path. 
He  holds  a  magic  wand,  and  life  becomes 
sweet  and  easy  before  the  unconscious  maiden. 
Then,  having  won  her  heart,  unaided  by  the 
prestige  of  wealth  and  rank,  he  takes  her 
some  day  to  a  noble  dwelling,  and  says,  "  'Tis 
mine."  How  pretty  !  And  it  was  her  story. 
That  pleasing  commencement  she  had  had, 
and  to  make  its  romance  more  complete,  the 
rich  man  in  disguise  was  a  sort  of  feudal 
enemy.  But  alas !  the  fair  ending  of  the  tale 
was  wanted. 

"  Life  is  not  a  ballad  or  a  novel,  after  all," 
thought  Dora,  amused  at  her  own  disappoint- 
ment, and  glancing  round  at  the  maps  and 
globes,  which  showed  her  how  wide  a  gap 
lay  there  between  the  first  and  the  last  pages 
of  her  book ;  "  the  rich  man  is  very  kind,  but 
it  is  not  a  wife  he  wants,  'tis  a  governess.  He 
has  a  foolish  sister-in-law,  whom  he  cannot 
trust  his  cluld  with,  and  as  the  poor  girl  is  a 
lady,  and  cheerful,  and  can  teach  what  she 
knows,  he  is  pleased  to  have  her  with  his  little 
daughter,  whilst  he  goes  and  spends  the  winter 
in  a  house  Avhich  is  his,  but  might  have  been 
her  brother's.  That  is  life,  and  that  is  why, 
too,  biography  is  so  disappointing.  The  first 
pages  are  always  full  of  wonderful  promise, 
but  the  last  have  lost  the  charm  ;  the  beauty 
of  the  tale  departs  with  youth,  and  returns  no 
more." 

Here  a  black-and-tan  paw,  gently  scratch- 
ing Dora's  knee,  drew  her  attention.  She 
looked  down  smiling,  and  saw  a  puir  of  full 
bright  eyes  mutely  begging  for  a  lap. 

"  Yes,  Fido,  you  shall  be  petted,"  she  said, 
taking  him  up  ;  and  as  Fido  luxuriously  made 
a  ball  of  himself,  and  soon  snored  with  pleas- 
ure, Dora'  thought,  "  God  bless  him  ! — ^he  has 
a  good  kind  heart.  It  was  like  him  to  cheer 
a  dying  woman  by  removing  this  sad  thought 
frono  her  mind.  She  died,  knowing  that  the 
little  creature  who  loved  her  would  not  be 
forsaken.     God  bless  him !  he  was  kind  to  me 


too.  I  am  sure  it  made  him  happy  to  see  me 
drawing  at  the  Musee,  and  thinking  myself  a 
bit  of  a  genius.  I  can  remember  many  a  smile 
and  many  a  look  in  which,  if  I  had  read  them 
rightly,  I  might  have  detected  the  pure,  heart- 
felt joy  of  a  good  man.  I  can  pay  him  back 
now,  and  I  will.  I  will  be  happy,  and  I 
will  be  cheerful — were  it  only  for  his  child's 
sake." 

The  opportunity  for  fulfilling  this  resolve 
came  almost  immediately.  The  door  opened, 
and  Eva  entered  the  room,  with  a  sad,  long 
face. 

"  Cousin  Dora,"  she  said,  with  a  profound 
sigh,  "  aunt  is  busy,  and — and  I  am  very  mis- 
erable." 

Miserable!  Dora  laughed  the  declaration 
to  scorn.  Miserable  ! — why,  Mr.  Templemore, 
if  he  knew  it,  would  be  quite  angry.  Be- 
sides, was  he  not  coming  back  ?  Miserable  ! — 
she  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing.  But,  vm- 
fortunately,  Eva  thought  herself  bound  to  be 
miserable,  and  Dora  soon  found  out  that  she 
owed  this  idea  to  Miss  Moore,  who  had  taken 
some  pains  to  impress  on  the  child  that  she 
must  in  duty  make  herself  unhappy,  because 
of  her  father's  departure.  Dora  did  not  con- 
tradict openly — there  was  no  need  to  do  so — 
but  she  swept  the  morbid  fancy  away ;  then, 
putting  Fido  on  his  cushion,  she  sat  down  to 
the  piano,  and  began  to  play ;  whilst  Eva  so 
far  forgot  her  grief  as  to  dance,  waving  her 
arnas  as  she  had  seen  little  girls  do  in  panto- 
mimes^and  making  some  erratic  and  abortive 
attempts  to  stand  upon  one  toe.  As  she  was 
in  that  picturesque  attitude,  the  door  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay  entered  the  room.  She, 
too,  came  io  be  miserable,  for  she  thought 
Dora  very  ill-used  by  Mr.  Templemofe;  but 
on  seeing  Eva  thus  dancing  to  her  daughter's 
music,  she  looked  so  bewildered,  that  Dora, 
who  had  turned  round,  asked  with  a  smile : 

"  What  is  it,  mamma  ?  "      • 

"  I   am  glad  you    are  both  co   cheerful," 


MKS.   LUAN'S  RETURN. 


1^ 


replied  Mrs.  Courtcnay,  still  looking  bewil- 
dered. 

"  Yes,  we  are  cheerful,"  said  Dora,  with  a 
bright,  proud  smile,  "  and  we  mean  to  go  on 
being  cheerful,  too,  mamma." 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  countenance  beamed  again 
on  hearing  this. 

"  My  dear,  I  am  so  glad  ! "  she  exclaimed, 
raising  her  voice — "  so  glad ! " 

Dora  laughed,  and  turned  back  to  the  piano, 
and  Eva  waved  her  arms,  again  and  again 
Stood  on  her  toe,  whilst  Mrs.  Courtenay  ut- 
tered little  screams  of  delight,  and  Miss  Moore, 
who  heard  these  doings  from  afar,  felt  shocked 
and  scandalized. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Time  bad  passed,  and  brought  few  changes 
in  Dora's  life.  She  had  done  with  Eva  one 
evening,  and  stole  up  to  her  own  room,  as  she 
often  did  at  that  hour.  It  was  very  cold,  but 
a  bright  moon  shone  in  the  wintry  sky,  and 
standing  in  the  deep  recess  of  her  window, 
Dora  looked  at  the  sharp  icicles  which  hung 
from  the  stone  angles  of  the  fountain  in  the 
court. 

"  So  am  I,"  thought  Dora. 

She  did  not  feel  dull,  she  did  not  feel  un- 
"  happy,  but  she  felt  torpid  like  that  frozen 
water. 

"  My  dear,  here  is  a  letter  for  you,"  said  her 
mother,  coming  in. 

Dora  turned  round  quickly ;  John  Luan  had 
written  a  week  ago,  the  letter  might  be  from 
Mr.  Templemore.  It  was  from  him — a  friendly 
letter,  as  usual,  and  enclosing  a  check. 

"  My  quarter's  salary,"  she  said. 

"How  nice!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtcnay; 
"  and  then  that  pretty  English  maid  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore sent  for  you  and  Eva.  Dora,  you  had 
a  fairy  for  your  godmother." 

"  Had  I ! "  asked  Dora  ;  for  memory  flew 
back  with  a  sort  of  passion  to  Madame  Ber- 


trand's  rooms,  and  the  old  church,  with  its 
gaVdcn  high  up  in  the  buttresses,  to  the  Musee, 
with  its  pictures,  and  to  long  happy  evenings, 
which  must  return  no  more.  "  Have  I  not 
buried  my  dead  yet  ?  "  she  thought,  scorning 
her  own  weakness. 

"  My  dear,  you  will  tear  that  check,"  un- 
easily said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  as  she  saw  her 
daughter  crushing  the  paper  in  her  little  ner- 
vous hand,  with  unconscious  force. 

Dora  laughed,  and  who  that  heard  her  girl- 
ish laugh  would  have  guessed  how  much 
strength  and  how  much  pride  lay  within  its 
clear  ringing  sound  ? 

"  Are  you  coming  to  the  drawing-room  ?  " 
resumed  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  poor  Miss  Moore 
does  prose  so  when  we  are  alone." 

"  I  shall  join  you  presently,"  said  Dora, 
cheerfully,  "  but  I  must  go  down  and  look  at 
some  drawings  first.  I  shall  not  be  long," 
she  added,  gayly,  on  seeing  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
blank  face. 

She  went  at  once,  and  on  her  way  down  she 
met  that  pretty  English  maid,  whose  presence 
was,  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's  opinion,  one  of  the 
glories  of  her  daughter's  lot. 

Fanny  curtsied,  and  stood  by  respectfully 
whilst  Miss  Courtenay  passed. 

"  Fanny  is  very  civil  and  very  pretty,  and  I 
have  not  a  fault  to  find  with  her,"  thought 
Dora,  looking  at  the  girl's  blooming  face  and 
sraiHng  blue  eyes  ;  "  but  I  suppose  I  am  hard 
to  please,  for  I  do  not  like  Fanny,  and  would 
rather  be  without  her." 

Mr.  Templemore,  before  leaving,  had  placed 
his  library  at  Dora's  disposal,  and  she  had 
spent  some  pleasant  hours  with  its  silent  ten- 
ants. But  now  she  was  not  incline^  for  a 
book,  she  wanted  something  more  vivid,  some- 
thing to  charm  the  eye  as  well  as  to  feed  the 
mind,  and  she  found  it  in  one  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  many  portfolios.  The  liours  Dora 
spent  thus  were  very  huppy  hours  in  tbeir 
way.    Surrounded  by  mementoes  of  Mr.  Tem- 


*28 


DORA. 


plemore,  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  him 
now  and  then ;  but  the  old  illusions,  the  old 
friendship  even,  she  forgot,  or  thought  that 
she  did  forget.  She  might  be  mistaken.  Her 
self-subjection  was  not,  perhaps,  so  complete 
as  she  imagined  it  to  be — but  she  was  far  too 
proud  to  be  unhappy. 

Perhaps  lore  does  not  makes  its  victims  so 
very  wretched,  after  all.  Perhaps  it  is  rather 
a  state  of  mild  and  bearable  suffering  than 
one  of  distracting  pain.  There  are  many  rea- 
sons why  the  patient's  pangs  should  be  con- 
cealed ;  and  when  (hey  are  revealed,  it  is  gen- 
erally because  they  have  become  intolerable. 
It  is  then  that  the  world  sees  despair,  and  the 
agony  of  grief,  and  draws  its  hasty  conclu- 
sions concerning  the  tragic  nature  of  love. 
We  may  be  sure  there  are  many  calm  lulls  to 
that  sorrow,  many  hours  when  it  is  forgotten, 
and  life  and  its  blessings  are  prized  in  their 
fulness.  Love  in  itself  can  never  be  a  curse  ; 
though  it  may  be  in  love's  destiny,  and  no 
doubt  is  to  lead  to  some  of  the  sharpest  tor- 
ments which  a  human  being  can  experience. 
But  when  there  is  and  can  be  no  hope,  there 
can  be  no  acute  suffering,  and  so  it  was  with 
Dora.  So  she  now  lingered  over  a  view  of 
Pompeii,  and  as  she  looked  at  the  lone  and 
desolate  streets  and  roofless  houses,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  stormy  wind  blowing  around  Les 
Roches,  she  thought  how  time  with  the  same 
resistless  force  had  swept  away  man  and  his 
generations  from  the  dead  city.  "  Yes,"  she 
said-to  her  own  thoughts,  "  we  are  before  that 
mighty  conqueror  as  dried  leaves  on  the  path 
of  a  strong  gust,  and  surely  it  is  impossible  to 
think  of  these  things,  and  indulge  in  vain  il- 
lusions or  dangerous  reverie." 

Dora  felt  very  calm  just  then,  full  of  phi- 
losophy and  of  that  wisdom  which  comes 
from  thought,  and  has  not  stood  the  test  of 
experience.  The  wind  was  strong,  as  we  said, 
and  it  did  not  let  her  hear  the  wheels  of  a 
carriage  on  the  gravelled  path  outside.     She 


did  not  hear  unaccustomed  sounds  in  the 
house  at  that  hour,  she  heard  nothing  till  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  she  sat  opened, 
and  Mrs.  Luan  stood  before  her. 

"  Aunt !  "  cried  Dora,  starting  to  her  feet  in 
much  surprise.  "  Is  it  really  you  ?—  are  you 
really  come  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan,  nodding  ;  "  Mr. 
Templemore  asked  me.  He  knew  it  would 
please  you,  he  said." 

"  How  kind  !  "  exclaimed  Dora  in  glad  sur- 
prise. "  Do  you  stay  long,  aunt  ?  Is  John 
coming  ?  " 

"  Xo,"  shortly  replied  Mrs.  Luan.  "  Mr. 
Templemore  did  not  ask  him." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Dora  with  a  gay 
laugh ;  "  but  he  could  go  to  Madame  Ber- 
trand,  you  know,  and  I  long  to  see  John 
again." 

"And  Mr.  Templemore,"  said  her  aunt, 
"  when  is  he  coming  ?  " 

"  Really,  aunt,  I  don't  know ; "  and  her 
face,  bright  as  sunshine,  seemed  tojidd, 
"  Really,  I  don't  care." 

Mrs.  Luan's  brain  was  not  a  clear  one.  A 
dreadful  fear  now  seized  her.  Had  Dora's 
heart  turned  the  wrong  way?  She  gave  her 
so  strange  and  moody  a  look,  that  her  niece 
was  startled. 

"  Aunt,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  Xothing,  but  I  wish  I  had  not  lost  the  let- 
ter— Mr.  Tcmplemore's  letter ;  it  was  beauti- 
ful— and  all  about  you." 

Dora's  deep  blush  did  not  speak  much  in 
favor  of  poor  John ;  and  Mrs.  Luan,  whom 
her  one  idea  could  render  clear-sighted,  read 
its  meaning. 

"  I  must  go  and  see  Miss  Moore  now,"  she 
said,  prudently  leaving  Dora  to  the  powerful 
auxiliary  of  her  own  thoughts.  "  Will  you 
come?" 

"When  I  have  put  away  this  portfolio," 
ans.wered  Dora. 

But  she  did  not  follow  her  aunt  at  once. 


INDIGNATION   OF  DORA'S  AUNT. 


129 


She  stood  with  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a 
happy  light  in  her  eyes,  forgetting  the  easy 
wisdom  of  five  minutes  back.  Ah  !  what  a 
thing  is  the  present  moment,  that  subtle  por- 
tion of  time  which  is  either  past  or  future, 
and  which  is  gone  before  we  can  say  'tis  here. 
In  vain  Dora  had  read  and  looked.  Neither 
book  nor  picture  now  gave  her  their  lesson,  or 
yielded  her  their  homily.  In  vain  they  had 
told  hcT  how  generations  had  come  and  gone, 
how  creeds  had  changed,  how  tlie  sun  of  some 
nations  had  set  in  the  darkness  of  an  eternal 
night,  and  that  of  other  nations  had  arisen 
and  reached  its  meridian  glorious  and  splen- 
did— there  was  something  stronger  than  it  all 
in  the  heart  of  the  dreaming  girl. 

"  Wbat  could  there  be  in  that  lost  letter  ?  " 
she  thought,  as  she  closed  the  door  of  the 
study  behind  her. 

She  stood  in  the  darkness  of  a  narrow  pas- 
sage, but  thence  she  could  see  the  square 
stone  hall  brightly  lit,  and  the  broad  staircase. 
Suddenly  the  front  door  opened,  and  Jacques, 
the  servant,  showed  in  a  tall  handsome  young 
man.  For  one  moment  Dora  remained  amazed 
and  mute,  the  next  she  eagerly  came  forward. 

"  John ! "  she  said,  joyfully ;  "  John  Luan !  " 

He  turned  round  quickly  and  took  her  ex- 
tended hand,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  happy, 
beaming  face. 

"  God  bless  you  !  "  he  said  ;  then  he  added, 
"  you  are  as  pretty  as  ever." 

"  Of  course  I  am,"  gayly  answered  Dora. 
"But  what  a  cheat  aunt  is  to  say  you  were 
not  coming ! " 

John  Luan  changed  color,  and  looked  so- 
bered at  once. 

"  Is  my  mother  here  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  She  has  just  arrived,  and  is  up-stairs  with 
mamma  and  Miss  Moore.  Did  you  not  travel 
together  ?  " 

"No,"  sulkily  replied  John.  Before  Dora 
could  make  any  comment,  a  door  above  open- 
ed, and  Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  probably  heard 


her  son's  voice,  appeared  at  the  head  of  the 
staircase. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  during 
that  interval,  brief  though  it  was,  Dora  saw 
and  guessed  much.  She  saw  the  brightness 
which  her  aspect  had  called  up  pass  away 
from  John's  face,  and  a  strange  sullen  like- 
ness to  his  mother  appear  there  in  its  stead — 
a  likeness  which  grew  deeper  and  stronger  as 
Mrs.  Luan  and  he  exchanged  looks.  She  saw 
this,  and  she  guessed  that  mother  and  son 
had  deceived  each  other ;  thougli  how  far  the 
deceit  had  been  carried — how  John  had  said 
he  was  going  to  Scotland,  and  Mrs.  Luan  that 
she  was  going  to  Dublin ;  how  John  had  come 
to  ask  her  to  become  his  wife,  and  Mrs.  Luan 
to  prevent  her  from  consenting;  and,  above 
all,  how  she  had  come  to  Les  Roches  without 
the  slightest  invitation  from  its  master,  Dora 
could  not  divine.  She  had  always  thought 
that  the  Obstacle  to  John's  suit  rested  with 
herself;  she  had  never  suspected  that  it  lay 
with  Mrs.  Luan. 

"  And  did  each  of  you  not  know  that  the 
other  was  coming  ?  "  she  could  not  help  ex- 
claiming. 

"  Come,  come,  I  see  we  have  caught  and 
surprised  you,"  gayly  replied  John  Luan,  re- 
covering his  composure.  "And  is  aunt  caught 
too  !     Where  is  aunt  ?  " 

"  Why,  John,  I  thought  you  were  in  Scot- 
land ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay's  voice  up- 
stairs ;  "  what  a  shame  of  Mrs.  Luan  to  im- 
pose upon  me  so ! " 

John  laughed,  and  went  up  to  Mrs.  Cbur- 
tenay,  who,  in  the  same  breath,  introduced 
him  to  Miss  Moore,  and  informed  him  that  he 
viould  be  delighted  at  Madame  Bertrand's, 
who  was  the  dearest  old  thing,  and  would 
take  such  care  of  him.  John's  reply  concern- 
ing the  shortness  of  his  stay,  and  the  advan- 
tages of  hotels,  did  not  reach  Dora.  She  did 
not  believe  that  this  was  a  concerted  plan  be- 
tween  John  and  his  mother,  and  she  stood 


130 


DORA. 


amazed  and  perplexed  at  the  foot  of  the  stair- 
case, with  her  hand  on  the  banisters,  and  her 
eyes  downcast.  On  looking  up,  at  length,  she 
saw  Mrs.  Luan  standing  alone,  almost  in  the 
same  attitude  as  herself.  Dora  looked  at  her 
steadily  as  she  went  up  the  staircase ;  but  Mrs. 
Luan  never  moved  nor  raised  her  sullen  eyes. 
"  How  moody  she  looks !  "  thought  Dora. 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  on  reaching  her,  and 
gently  touching  her  hand  as  she  spoke,  "  why 
did  not  John  tell  you  he  was  coming  ? — and 
why  also  did  you  not  tell  him  V  " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  up,  and  there  was  a  con- 
fusion in  her  gaze  which  did  not  seem  to  come 
from  Dora's  question — the  confusion  of  a  dull 
mind,  to  which  even  light  and  clear  matters 
appear  perplexed  and  strange. 

"  He  can't  stay,"  was  her  only  answer ;  "  he 
can't  afford  it,  you  know." 

There  was  nothing  else  to  be  got  from  her. 
Dora  saw  it,  and  thought,  "Poor  John,  he 
came  to  see  me,  and  his  mother  tells  me  he 
cannot  afford  to  marry ;  as  if  I  did  not  know 
it — and  as  if  I  wanted  him  !  "  This  much  she 
understood — this  much  and  no  more. 

It  was  quite  true  that  John  could  not  stay ; 
his  time  was  not  his  own — he  too  said  so. 
He  was  very  full  of  his  prospects,  for  he 
had  been  promised  an  appointment  of  a 
hundred  a  year,  which  he  seemed  to  con- 
sider a  small  fortune.  He  was  to  be  the 
medical  attendant  of  a  wonderful  society 
for  the  improvement,  or  the  benefit,  or  the 
perplexity  of  young  women ;  he  was  to  have 
a  cottage  and  a  garden,  and  plenty  of  time, 
for  the  young  women  were  only  to  be  invalids 
when  they  could  not  help  it;  so  that,  as  every 
one  else  in  the  neighborhood  was,  on  the  con- 
trary, to  be  in  delicate  health.  Doctor  John' 
Luan  would  enjoy  every  opportunity  of  estab- 
lishing a  large  practice,  and  of  earning  a 
handsome  income.  He  seemed  so  sure  of 
all  tliis,  he  looked  so  handsome  with  his 
blue   eyes   and   his   florid   complexion,  there 


was  something  so  young  and  yet  so  per- 
fectly manly  about  him,  that  Miss  Moore, 
spite  Dora's  reserved  manner,  had  no  doubt 
but  John  Luan  was  a  favored  admirer.  How 
could  he  be  otherwise  ?  Surely  Miss  Courtenay 
never  thought  she  could  do  better ! 

Some  vague  suspicion  of  the  same  kind 
lurked  in  Mrs.  Luan's  mind.  Either  she  was 
not  quite  convinced  of  Dora's  secret  liking 
for  Mr.  Templemore,  or  she  doubted  its  depth 
and  durability,  for  she  never  left  her  son's 
side.  But  spite  all  her  watching,  John  found 
means  to  see  Dora  alone.  He  would  not 
mind  her  gravity,  or  read  its  meaning.  He 
knew  she  did  not  love  him,  for  love  gives 
keenness  even  to  the  dull ;  but  John  was  not 
exacting  or  romantic;  let  Dora  marry  him, 
or  promise  to  marry  him  some  day,  and  he 
was  content.  He  was  matter-of-fact  in  love, 
as  in  most  things,  and  considered  that  to  have 
the  woman  he  was  fond  off,  was  the  great 
point  in  matrimony.  "The  rest  will  come 
with  time,"  was  his  philosophic  conclusion. 
And  as  he  meant  to  be  kind,  affectionate, 
and  devoted,  he  may  be  excused  if  he  was 
also  easily  satisfied. 

"  I  wish  I  could  like  him,"  thought  Dora, 
who  knew  better  than  John  himself  how  good, 
how  kind,  how  true  was  her  cousin.  But  she 
could  not,  it  was  not  in  her  power,  and  never 
had  lover's  wooing  less  chance  of  success 
than  John  Luan's,  when  he  suddenly  came 
upon  her  the  next  morning  in  the  garden. 
The  day  was  mild  and  gray.  One  of  the 
last  day^of  winter,  with  something  of  spring 
softness  in  the  air.  John  found  Dora  in  the 
flower-garden,  near  the  house,  with  Eva 
trundling  her  hoop.  Mrs.  Luan,  unconscious 
of  her  danger,  was  in  the  dining-room  at  the 
other  end  of  the  chateau. 

Dora  availed  herself  of  the  opportunity  to 
urge  on  John  a  matter  which  had  long  lurked 
in  her  mind,  and  which  the  preceding  day's 
occurrence  had  brought  back  very  forcibly.  * 


HIS  PROPOSAL   OF  MARRIAGE. 


131 


"John,"  she  said,  "how  has  aunt  been 
whilst  she  was  with  you  ?  " 

John  stared,  for  his  mother  enjoyed  perfect 
health. 

"  Why,  well,  of  course,"  he  answered. 

Dora  hesitated. 

"  You  were  never  struck  with  anything  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  Struck  with  what  ?  " 

"  With  any  oddity  or  peculiarity  ?  " 

John  stared  again.  His  mother  had  always 
been  peculiar. 

"  In  short,"  said  Dora,  with  a  strong  efifort, 
"you  have  no  fear  that  her  mind  is  at  all 
affected  ?  " 

If  John  could  have  been  angry  with  Dora, 
he  would  have  been  angry  then.  He  was  so 
indignant,  and  so  much  pained,  too,  that  his 
cousin  stammered  an  excuse.  This  pacified 
him  at  once. 

"  You  must  think  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he 
said,  good-humoredly  ;  "  and  you  must  hsten 
to  what  I  have  to  say,  please.  I  have  liked 
you  all  my  life.  •  Whilst  you  had  money  I 
was  silent.  We  are  both  poor — I  can  speak. 
You  know  my  position.  I  can  afford  to  marry 
now.     Will  you  share  my  lot  ?  " 

"  No,  John,  thank  you,"  replied  Dora,  with 
a  grave  smile.  "  I  like  you  dearly,  but  not 
as  I  should  like  you  for  that." 

But  John,  who  had  expected  this,  would 
not  be  disheartened,  and  he  said  so. 

"  No,  Dora,  I  will  not  take  your  denial.  I 
have  thought  of  it  years,  and  I  am  sure  I 
could  make  you  happy — very  bapQ|^!  I  knew 
you  would  say  no,  but  I  believeo,  and  still 
believe,  that  you  wiU  end  by  saying  yes  !  " 

He  spoke  resolutely,  and  Dora  looked  at 
bim  in  perplexity.  Was  John  a  prophet? 
Was  she  really  to  conquer  the  present  so  far 
as  to  become,  some  day,  the  wife  of  the  good- 
humored  friend  and  cousin  she  now  gazed  on  ? 
The  prospect  almost  appalled  her.  Yet  it 
might  be.     She,  too,  might — like  many  a  girl 


before  her — reject  her  first  lover,  then  turn 
back  to  him,  and  be  glad  of  the  refuge  of  that 
true,  faithful  heart.  But  integrity  would  not 
allow  her  to  indulge  John  Luan  in  an  illusion 
which,  whilst  it  bound  him,  would  leave  her 
free,  and  she  said  so. 

"  And  what  need  you  care  if  I  do  not  mind 
it  ?  "  he  answered,  impatiently.  "  I  tell  you 
stranger  things  than  this  have  come  to  pass. 
Ju6t  tell  me  if  it  be  not  strange  that  you,  Mr. 
Courtenay's  niece,  and  Paul  Courtenay's  sister, 
should  now  be  governess  to  Mr.  Templemore's 
child  ?  Did  you  not  detest  the  man's  name  ? 
Did  you  not  always  vow  that,  if  poverty  struck 
you,  you  would  be  a  seamstress,  and  not  a  de- 
pendant in  a  rich  man's  house  ?  And  yet  here 
you  are,  to  all  seeming  pleased  and  happy  in 
your  position.  According  to  your  account,  Mr. 
Templemore  is  white  as  snow,  and  we  were  to 
blame — not  he.  That  little  girl  dotes  on  you, 
and  you  dote  on  her,  and  you  look  very  happy 
and  contented — all  of  which,  if  I  did  not  see 
it,  I  should  deem  incredible.  Yet  so  it  is. 
Why,  then,  tell  me  that  I  must  not  hope  ?  " 

Dora,  who  had  turned  red  and  pale  repeat- 
edly whilst  he  spoke,  felt  silenced  by  his  Iblunt 
and  not  unreasonable  argument.  Yet  she  ven- 
tured on  one  objection. 

"  I  am  happy  here,  as  you  say,  John ;  and 
as  my  task  is  one  which  will  take  years,  why 
should  I  leave  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning  ! "  re- 
pHed  John,  a  little  sulkily. 

Again  Dora  felt  silenced,  and  Eva,  by  coming 
up,  and  leaving  her  governess  no  more,  did 
not  allow  either  to  renew  the  subject.  John, 
indeed,  no  more  cared  to  speak  further  than 
Dora  to  hear  him.  He  had  said  his  say,  and 
not  being  an  eloquent  man,  he  could  add 
nothing  to  his  blunt  wooing.  It  satisfied  him 
that  Dora  should  knoAv  he  loved  her,  and 
wished  to  marry  her.  The  rest  would  come. 
Her  rejection  he  would  not  consider  as  final. 
He  was  his  mother's  son  in  many  things — in 


132 


DORA. 


obstinacy,  not  to  say  stubbornness,  as  well  as 
in  abrupt,  inelegant  speech.  And  Dora  would 
rather  not  pursue  a  theme  which  grated  on 
her  ear  like  a  discordant  note  in  music.  She 
thought  highly  of  her  cousin,  she  was  sure  of 
his  affection,  but  she  also  felt  that  to  be  loved 
thus  could  never  make  her  happy.  She  re- 
quired that  something  more  which,  to  exact- 
ing youth,  is  like  the  crown  of  love,  the  grace, 
the  poetry,  the  touch  of  romance,  which  mast 
exist,  whether  they  be  merely  in  a  girl's  feel- 
ings, or  really  in  the  man  she  loves. 

John  could  waken  no  admiration,  no  en- 
thusiasm in  her  heart ;  he  appealed  to  none  of 
these  faculties  which  attend  on  every  strong 
feeling,  and  deepen  its  intensity,  or  add  to  its 
force.  He  was  plain  John  Luan  to  her,  and 
with  a  sigh  Dora  felt  he  must  remain  so ;  her 
cousin,  her  early  friend,  but  no  more.  She 
had  felt  almost  certain  of  it  before  he  spoke — 
she  was  sure  without  a  doubt  now  that  he  had 
spoken.  The  man  who,  in  so  deep  and  urgent 
a  matter,  could  find  no  more  persuasive  ac- 
cents than  poor  John  had  found  to  plead  his 
cause,  could  never  rule  her  heart.  The  fault 
might  be  hers,  but  the  fact  remained,  and  it 
was  clear  and  strong,  and  not  to  be  disputed 
or  resisted. 

With  such  feelings  upon  her,  Dora  welcomed 
the  child's  presence  as  a  Godsend  ;  she  was 
glad  even  when  Mrs.  Luan  came  down.  That 
lady,  indeed,  looked  confounded  on  seeing  her 
son  with  Dora,  but  on  perceiving  that  Eva 
was  with  them  too,  her  brow  cleared  ;  nothing 
could  have  taken  place,  and  lest  anything 
should  take  place  she  left  them  no -more. 
Her  task  of  wrttchfulness  was  soon  over. 
John  went  away  that  same  afternoon,  and  he 
bade  Dora  adieu  in  Les  Roche?,  and  his 
mother  accompanied  him  to  the  station,  and 
came  baclt  looking  sulkily  triumphtmt,  as  was 
her  wont  whenever  she  hud  achieved  some 
little  success. 

Tliere  is  always  somethiug  momentous  to  a 


young  girl  in  an  offer  of  marriage,  whatever 
may  be  her  feelings  toward  the  man  by  whom 
it  has  been  made.  It  almost  always  marks  a 
crisis  in  the  story  of  her  life ;  it  is  an  epoch  in 
her  youth,  toward  which  she  looks  back  some- 
times with  amusement,  sometimes,  too,  with 
regret,  but  which  she  cannot  well  forget.  In 
vain  Dora  had  known  for  years  that  she  was 
dear  to  John  Luan's  heart,  in  vain  her  only 
source  of  wonder  was  that  he  had  taken  so 
long  to  speak,  in  vain  too  his  wooing  had 
been  both  plain  and  brief,  something  of  that 
wooing,  such  as  it  was,  remained  behind  him 
when  he  was  gone,  and  made  Les  Roches 
seem  cold  and  dull.  She  did  not  repent  ber 
refusal,  she  could  not  believe  she  ever  should 
regret  it,  and  yet  she  felt  that  one  of  her 
chances  of  happiness  as  a  woman  was  gone. 
John  Luan  was  not  the  right  one,  but  it  is  not 
always  the  right  one  who  comes  in  life,  he 
often  goes  elsewhere  or  he  dies  early,  or  lives 
unwedded,  or  has  a  wife  anfl  three  children 
when  one  sees  him  first;  in  short,  even  a 
beauty  has  and  can  have  but  a  certain  amourvt 
of  lovers,  and  even  a  beauty  must  make  up 
her  mind  to  the  sad  and  unpleasant  fact  that 
amongst-  these  the  right  one  may  never  be. 
Some  secret  voice  told  Dora  this,  and  though 
she  was  too  brave  and  proud  to  fear  the  lone- 
ly life  which  would  probably  be  her  lot,  she 
was  too  honest  not  to  feel  that  if  she  could  so 
far  have  conquered  her  feelings  it  might  have 
been  well  for  her  to  have  become  John  Luan's 
wife. 

Some  ^vity,  therefore,  appeared  on  her 
countenance,  and  Mrs.  Luan,  unaccustomed 
to  see  such  a  sign  there,  grew  uneasy,  and 
watched  her  niece  both  closely  and  stealthily. 
But  if  Dora  spoke  less  than  usual  on  the  day 
that  followed  John  Luan's  departure — if  she 
looked,  as  she  was,  abstracted  and  thoughtful, 
the  little  cloud  soon  passed  away,  the  bright- 
ness returned,  the  happy,  smiling  eyes  got  back 
their  light,  and  the  rosy  check  its  bloom. 


RETURN  OF  EVA'S  FATHER. 


133 


"  My  dear,  how  well  you  look  !  "  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay  said,  admiringly. 

"  Because  I  am  well,"  was  the  gay  reply — 
"  well  and  happy." 

She  felt  so  well  and  so  light,  that  she  won- 
dered at  it  herself,  and  never  guessed  the  cause. 
There  is  a  great,  a  powerful  renovator,  who 
\'isits  us  every  year,  giving  back  to  the  old  the 
dreams  of  youth,  and  to  the  young  sweet  and 
restless  illusions — one  whose  breath  clears  the 
sullen  winter  sky,  whose  steps  cover  the  green 
earth  with  flowers,  whose  mere  aspect  is  as  the 
beauty  of  lost  paradise — Spring,  the  youth  of 
nature,  the  divine  messenger  of  love,  the  en- 
chanting promise  of  joys  that  never  come  in 
their  fulness.  It  was  not  in  Dora's  power  to 
resist  the  voice  of  this  sweet  deluder.  He 
came  one  day  in  a  soft  shower,  and  birds  be- 
gan to  sing,  and  buds  broke  forth  into  foliage 
on  the  boughs.  Violets  blushed  in  the  shade, 
cowslips  and  primroses  followed  the  cold-look- 
ing snowdrop.  The  gardener  let  in  the  sun 
to  the  fair  captives  in  the  green-house,  and 
every  thing  about  Les  Roches  looked  sweet 
and  enchanting. 

If  the  little  world  around  Mr.  Templemore's 
chateau  was  restricted  in  extent,  it  was  full  of 
beauty.  A  narrow  but  pleasant  river  flowed 
through  it  with  a  soft  murmur,  tall  trees  grew 
on  its  banks,  and  bent  over  it  with  sylvan 
grace ;  reeds,  grasses  abounded  there.  Farther 
on  a  path  wound  in  the  shade,  and  here,  near 
the  rocks  and  the  waterfall,  was  the  spot  which 
Dora  loved.  The  little  green  reces?,  with 
many  a  tangled  weed,  and  many  a  trailing  ivy- 
bough,  in  which  stood  the  stone  bench,  old 
and  gray.  A  hundred  years  and  more  had  that 
bench  stood  there.  It  had  seen  the  ancien 
regime, ^  and  gay  gentlemen,  and  powdered 
ladies,  with  long  trailing  silk  skirts ;  it  had 
heard  the  love-making  of  two  or  three  genera- 
tions. Mademoiselle  Scudery's  Clelie  had  been 
forgotten  upon  it,  then  Florian's  pastorals,  then 
the  grun  Moniteur  of  the  stem  Republic  and 


Napoleonic  bulletins  of  wonderful  victories. 
And,  ancient  though  it  was,  its  days  were  not 
numbered  yet.  More  love,  more  reading,  more 
pleasant  or  fond  converse  it  was  yet  to  know, 
whil.-^t  the  trees  gave  it  their  shade,  and  parted 
in  a  bright  view  of  the  sunlit  chateau  on  its 
airy  height. 

On  the  bench  Dora  and  Eva  sat,  tired  with 
wandering,  one  delicious  afternoon.  The  child 
rolled  herself  up  in  a  ball,  and  leaned  against 
her  young  governess.  She  looked  at  the  cha- 
teau through  half-shut  eyes,  and  talked  in  the 
dreamy,  rambling  fashion  of  imaginative  chil- 
dren. Dora  heard,  but  did  not  listen.  Now 
and  then,  indeed,  she  caught  something  about 
Fanny,  and  Jacques,  and  Minna,  all  mingling 
together  in  strange  confusion,  but  her  thoughts 
were  far  away.  This  spring  day  had  sent  her 
back  to  other  springs  already  lost  and  gone, 
young  though  she  still  was,  and  their  pale 
spectres  and  faded  verdure  came  back  to  her 
with  mingled  joy  and  sorrow  in  their  as- 
pect. 

"  Oh  !  if  one  could  forget !  "  she  thought, 
with  something  like  passion — "if  one  could 
but  forget ! " 

A  cry  and  a  bound  from  Eva  roused  her. 
She  started,  and  looking  up,  saw  the  child  in 
her  father's  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Dora  was  surprised,  and  scarcely  felt  more 
than  surprise.  Perhaps  the  image  of  Paul 
had  been  too  recently  with  her  for  Paul's  sis- 
ter to  forget  at  once  that  this  was  her  lost 
brother's  rival.  Perhaps  absence  and  time 
bad  not  been  ineflFectual.  With  something 
like  triumph  she  returned  Mr.  Templemore's 
greeting,  and  thought,  as  she  looked  at  him, 
and  felt  her  own  coldnes?, 

"  I  am  cured  ! — I  am  well ! " 

"  How  well  you  both  look  ! "  he  said,  gUn- 
cing  from  her  to  Eva. 


134 


DORA. 


<'  And  I  know  so  many  things  ! "  cried  Eva, 
ardently. 

"  Do  you  ?— well,  I  hope  your  temper  is 
improved." 

"  But  Eva  has  a  very  good  temper,"  seriously 
said  Dora. 

He  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  Eva,  who 
shook  her  curls,  and  seemed  unconscious,  as 
children  can  seem  when  it  suits  their  purpose, 
this  being  one  of  those  weapons  of  defence 
with  which  we  are  all  provided,  from  the  beetle 
upward.  Once  more  Mr.  Templemore  be- 
stowed his  attention  upon  Dora ;  he  was  full 
of  courteous  inquiries,  and  still  rejoicing  at 
her  calmness,  and  thinking,  "  Is  it  so  ? — is  it 
really  so  soon  over  ? "  she  heard  him  with 
grateful  composure.  Little  did  Dora  suspect 
that  Mr.  Templemore  was  full  of  resentment 
and  wonder,  in  which  she  had  some  slight 
share.  Mrs.  Luan  happened  to  be  the  first 
person  he"  had  seen  on  entering  Les  Roches. 
He  found  her  established  in  his  house  as  a 
guest.  Had  she  come  self-invited  ?  It  seemed 
unlikely.  Miss  Moore  disliked  her — he  knew 
it.  Had  Dora — had  Mrs.  Courtenay  taken  so 
great  a  liberty  ?  He  did  not  wish  to  question, 
still  less  to  make  Mrs.  Luan  feel  that  she  was 
no  welcome  visitor.  She  was  a  low-browed, 
sulky  woman,  but  she  was  Dora's  aunt,  and 
the  late  Mrs.  Courtenay's  sister,  and  for  a 
while,  at  least,  he  must  endure  this  unbidden 
guest,  and  unless  chance  favored  him,  not  even 
know  through  whom  she  had  been  forced 
upon  him.  But  this  was  not  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  only  cause  of  annoyance.  Miss  Moore 
had  written  to  him  and  told  him  of  John 
Luan's  visit,  and,  according  to  her  account, 
the  young  man  was  a  poor  but  favored  ad- 
mirer. Was  he  therefore  threatened  with 
losing  bis  governess,  just  when  he  felt'  least 
inclined  to  part  with  her  ?  Of  this,  too,  Mr. 
Templemore  betrayed  nothing.  He  spoke 
very  pleasantly,  as  was  his  wont,  and  gave 
Dora  some  good  news — there  was   a  chance 


of    the  "Redmore    Mines    paying    dividends 
again. 

"  It  is  only  a  chance,"  he  added,  smiling ; 
"  but  even  a  chance  of  money  has  something 
golden  and  pleasant  about  it." 

They  parted  on  reaching  the  house.  Dora 
went  up  to  her  room,  and  found  her  mother 
waiting  for  her. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  excitedly. 

"  There  is  a  chance  of  the  Redmore  Mines 
paying  dividends." 

"Is  there? — how  nice!  And  Mr.  Temple- 
more ?  " 

"  He  is  coming  to  the  school-room  this  even- 
ing, to  see  how  Eva  has  got  on." 

And  as  she  said  this,  Dora's  grave  look, 
added  so  plainly,  "  I  am  the  governess,  you 
know,"  that  her  mother's  face  fell  a  little, 
spite  the  news  of  the  Redmore  Mines.  "  Yes, 
I  am  the  governess,"  thought  Dora,  as  she  sat 
with  Eva  in  the  school-room,  waiting  for  Mr. 
Tcmplemoi'e ;  "  let  us  hope  my  patron  will  be 
satisfied." 

The  evening  was  mild,  the  window  was 
open,  and  through  it  the  eye  caught  a  dark 
glimpse  of  the  flower-garden,  and  beyond  it 
of  the  trees  by  which  it  was  enclosed.  The 
scent  -of  a  bed  of  wall-flowers  rose  strongly  on 
the  air,  and  a  long  silver  streak  of  moonlight 
came  into  the  room,  and  fell  on  that  part  of 
the  floor  which  the  light  of  the  lamp  did  not 
reach. 

"  There's  papa !  "  cried  Eva,  joyously ;  "  I 
smell  his  cigar.  Now,  what  will  you  question 
me  in  ?  "  she  added,  eagerly,  as  Mr.  Temple- 
more entered  the  room ;  "  history,  geogra- 
phy—" 

"  You  overpower  me,"  he  interrupted ;  "  I 
am  not  learned,  you  know." 

"  I  am,"  declared  Eva,  shaking  her  dark 
curls. 

"  Then  I  think  I  shall  take  you  upon  trust. 
It  will  spare  us  both  trouble." 

Eva  looked  so  disappointed,  that  Mr..Temple- 


AN   INTERVIEW   WITH   MRS.   LUAN. 


135 


more  relented,  asked  to  know  the  date  of  the 
Norman  hivasion,  and  had  half  a  dozen  centu- 
ries added  to  it  by  his  little  daughter.  He 
laughed,  but  Dora  blushed,  and  uttered  a  re- 
proachful "  Eva ! " 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,  that  is  nothing,"  he 
said,  gayly ;  "  I  consider  dates  a  trifle  in  his- 
tory. But,  alas !  for  facts,  who  can  get  hold 
of  them  ?  I  was  reading  about  the  gunpow- 
der plot  the  other  day.  Well,  it  seems  that 
yise  King  Jamie  and  his  minister,  Sir  Edward 
Coke,  took  the  trouble  to  garble  and  alter  the 
written  confessions  of  that  wretched  Guy 
Fawkes  and  his  accomplices  with  their  own 
royal  and  ministerial  hands,  and  that  account, 
thus  altered,  they  published  to  the  world,  who 
was  allowed  to  have  none  other.  It  is  de- 
plorably hard  to  get  a  true  thing,  and  not 
more  so  in  history  than  in  anything  else.  I 
am  not  fond  of  snuff,  but  if  I  were,  what 
should  I  feel  on  learning  that  guano  is  sold 
for  it  in  London  ?  The  king  and  the  trades- 
man are  cheats,  both  of  them,  and  what  are 
we  poor  customers  and  students  to  do  ?  " 

But  Eva  ^id  not  like  all  this.  "  Do  ques- 
tion me,  papa,"  she  urged ;  "  I  know  geog- 
raphy— " 

"No,  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  that.  I 
am  in  the  carping  mood — let  us  stick  to  plain 
English,  and  try  and  not  wander  thence." 

Accordingly,  an  examination  beginning  with 
the  parts  of  speech,  and  ending  with  syntax, 
took  place.     It  proved  highly  satisfactory. 

"So  far  the  child  is  all  right,  thanks  to 
you,  Miss  Courtenay,"  said  Mr.  Templemore ; 
"  but,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  how  shall  we 
guard  her  against  the  perils  of  choice  elocu- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  or  the  equal  dangers  of 
slang  on  the  other?  I  mean  as  she  grows  up 
to  the  critical  age  when  maidens  have  to  steer 
between  this  Charybdis  and  that  Scylla.  We 
must  trust  her  to  Providence,  I  suppose — 
poor  little  Eva !  how  she  stares,  unconscious 
of  the  snares  lying  before  her  !     There,  child. 


that  will  do — go  to  bed  and  sleep — go  to  bed 
and  sleep." 

But  he  had  to  hear  Eva's  waltz,  to  praise  it, 
to  thank  Dora,  and  pay  her  some  complhncnts 
before  he  left.  He  went,  though  it  was  early 
yet;  but  of  course  he  could  not  spend  his 
evening  with  her.  Yet  it  seemed  hard  he 
should  go  so  early.  Doctor  Richard  used  to 
stay  till  it  was  eleven,  and  not  think  it  late. 
"  But  then  I  was  not  the  governess,"  thought 
Dora. 

Yes,  that  was  it— her  position  was  changed, 
and,  wi'th  all  his  courtesy,  Mr.  Templemore  . 
could  not  treat  his  daughter's  governess  as  he 
had  treated  Miss  Courtenay ;  he  could  not,  in 
justice  to  her,  spend  a  whole  evening  in  the 
school-room,  and  indulge  in  her  society,  much 
as  he  liked  it.  The  world  and  its  laws  and 
proprieties  divided  them  not  merely  then  and 
thus,  but  at  every  other  time  and  in  every 
other  way.  At  the  sam^  time,  if  he  left  her 
thus  early,  it  was  to  take  an  active  interest  in 
her  welfare,  which  Dora  would  scarcely  have 
appreciated  had  she  known  of  it. 

Mr.  Templemore  wanted  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Luan  about  her  son,  and  he  had  asked  her  to 
meet  him  in  his  study.  She  came,  as  stolid- 
looking  as  ever.  Mr.  Templemore  declared 
his  purpose  at  once. 

"  My  dear  madam,"  he  said,  kindly,  "  you 
must  excuse  my  troubling  you  at  so  undue  an 
hour,  but  I  greatly  wish  to  speak  to  you  on  a 
subject  which  interests  us  both.  Is  there  not 
an  attachment  between  your  son  and  Miss 
Courtenay  ?  If  so,  I  shall  only  feel  too  happy 
to  favor  it  by  forwarding  his  views  in  life. 
Might  I  not,  through  my  influence  here  with 
some  of  the  companies  in  which  I  am  a  large 
shareholder,  for  instance,  procure  him  some 
appointment  which  would  enable  him  to 
marry?" 

Mrs.  Luan  had  listened  to  him  thus  far  in 
mute  consternation  at  this  strange  perversion 
of  all  her  plans  ;  but  when  she  heard  the  omi- 


136 


DORA. 


nous  word  "marrv,"  all  her  suppressed  anger 
and  fear  broke  forth. 

"No,  no ! "  she  cried,  aghast  at  the  danger, 
"there  is  no  attachment;  and,  please,  vou 
must  not  do  that— you  must  not ! " 

"I  hope  I  have  not  distressed  you?"  he 
said,  gravely. 

'•  No,  no  ;  but  you  must  not ! " 

She  was  less  excited,  but  still  much  moved. 
l£r.  Templemore  looked  at  her  quietly,  though 
keenly.  "  It  is  that  sullen,  stupid  woman  who 
opposes  the  marriage,"  he  thought.  But  he 
felt  sUenced,  and  only  renewed  his  apologies 
at  his  interference.  Mrs.  Luan  heard  him 
out,  then  rose  to  go.  When  she  stood  at  the 
door  she  paused  and  looked  back. 

"  John  must  not  come  any  more,"'  she  said. 
"  You  will  not  bring  him,  wiU  you '? " 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  replied ;  and  he  thought 
-:— "  What  an  idiot  1 " 

Alas !  how  often  we  fiing  on  others  that  re- 
proach of  folly;  and  if  vfe  but  knew  the 
truth,  and  read  the  future,  how  often  we 
should  be  mute. 

He  had  spoken  gravely  and  positively,  yet 
Mrs.  Luan  was  disturbed.  She  did  not  want 
John  to  marry  her  niece.  Xo  appointment 
could  reconcile  her  to  the  fact  of  Dora's  penni- 
less condition.  If  John  got  a  good  appoint- 
ment, why,  he  should  also  get  a  wife  with 
money,  and  not  take  one  without  it.  So  there 
was  a  heavier  cloud  of  sulkiness  on  her  brow 
than  usually  sat  there  when  she  went  up  to 
the  drawing-room.  She  found  Mrs.  Courtenay 
seated  before  a  table,  with  cards  spread  before 
her.  Patience,  rather  neglected  of  late,  had 
resumed  its  attractions  on  Mr.  Templemore's 
return.  She  nodded  significantly  to  Mrs. 
Luan,  and  said,  with  a  profound  assumption 
of  mystery, 

"  I  did  it  three  times — for  a  wish — and 
three  times  I  succeeded !  " 

Mrs.  Luan  did  not  answer,  perhaps  she  did 
not  even  hear  her.     She  had  a  magic  more 


certain  than  that  of  her  credulous  little  sister- 
in-law,  and  she  could  rely  upon  it. 

There  is  many  a  happy  lull  in  the  affairs 
of  men ;  days  follow  days  in  delicious  monot- 
ony, and  one  is  so  like  the  other,  that,  look- 
ing back  upon  them,  they  lose  their  separate 
existence,  and  blend  in  one  calm  image  of  the 
past  But  of  these  serene  intervals,  history, 
public  or  private,  can  take  no  account,  and  it 
is  a  pity.  For  hence-  springs  a  strange  look 
of  imreality.  Catastrophe  comes  quick  on 
catastrophe.  Empires  seem  to  perish  faster 
than  we  can  read  of  their  destruction,  mighty 
revolutions  are  accomplished  before  we  weU 
know  whence  they  sprang,  and  battle  suc- 
ceeds battle,  till  we  grow  callous,  and  read 
of  thousands  killed  with  happy  equanimity. 

In  the  history  which  deals  with  one  human 
life  we  have  the  same  effects  and  the  same 
results.  Existence  there  seems  made  up  of 
keen  sufferings  or  ecstatic  joys  ;  the  medium 
world,  in  which  even  the  most  fortunate  or 
the  least  happy  must  move  now  and  then, 
vanishes  from  our  view,  lost  in  the  dark  shade 
or  the  strong  light  of  the  picture.  It  is  so, 
and  we  cannot  help  it.  The  subtleness  of 
daily  life  eludes  us ;  its  evanescent  charm  is 
one  we  never  can  secure  in  its  fulness. 
Glimpses  we  may  have ;  but  glimpses  are  not 
the  whole  truth,  that  is  beyond  our  reach,  and 
ever  remains  thus,  divine  and  unapproachable. 

There  came  a  great  repose  over  Dora  Ccnr- 
tenay's  life  about  this  time.  It  lasted  one 
week — ^no  more,  but  it  was  sweet,  and  she 
never  forgot  it.  She  saw  little  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  but  that  little  sufficed  her.  His  friend- 
ly and  open  manner,  that  said  so  plainly, 
"Friends  we  are — friend,  and  no  more,"  did 
her  good.  It  made  her  feel  brave  and  strong, 
and  at  the  same  time  secure  in  her  strength. 
His  society,  also,  broke  on  the  dulness  of  her 
life.  It  gave  food  to  thought,  and  yet  it 
nursed  up  no  fond  and  dangerous  illusions. 

"  I  know   this   will  not  last,"   she    often 


THE  LNTTEXDED   MARRIAGE. 


137 


thought.  "  I  know  some  change  must  come ; 
but  whilst  it  lasts  I  feel  happy — is  not  that 
much  ?  "  • 

It  was  much  indeed,  very  much;  but  the 
change,  however,  came  more  quickly  than 
Dora  had  expected. 

Mr.  Templemore  had  joined  her  on§  even- 
ing in  the  garden.  He  never  did  so,  and 
though  Eva  was  with  him,  Dora  felt  intuitive- 
ly that  he  had  something  particular  to  say. 
K  such  was  the  case,  he  began  very  wide  the 
mark. 

"Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said  very  gravely, 
"  has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  to  regret  not 
having  been  bom  in  antediluvian  times  ?  " 

"Xever,"  replied  Dora,  smiling,  and  she 
thought  "  he  has  nothing  to  say,  after  all ;  he 
is  only  going  to  indulge  in  one  of  his  usual 
flights  of  fancy." 

"Then  let  me  inform  you  that  I  bitterly 
regret  belonging  to  these  degenerate  days," 
resumed  Mr.  Templemore.  "Xow,  do  con- 
sider. Miss  Courtenay,  what  delightful  crea- 
tures there  were  fomerly :  lizards  thirty  feet 
long  or  so.  Everything  was  on  so  grand  a 
scale  then !  Think  how  entertaining  it  would 
be  to  see  that  light  and  graceM  bird,  the 
Epiornis,  pick  up  a  live  crocodUe  and  fly  off 
with  it !  Such  grand  battles  on  land  and  sea 
there  must  have  been,  too.  "We  have  lost  all 
that  now." 

"  Thank  Heaven !  " 

"Xo— no,  I  must  convert  you;  Eva,  run 
and  get  me  the  paper  on  the  table  in  my 
study.  I  must  show  Miss  Courtenay  a  draw- 
ing of  the  Epiornis." 

Eva  went  readily,  and  Dora,  looking  at  Mr. 
Templemore,  thought : 

"  Now  he  is  going  to  say  it," 

And  she  was  right — he  b^an  at  once. 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,  I  have  sent  away 
Eva  because  I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  to  you 
out  of  her  hearing.  To  begin  at  the  very 
b^inning :  I  am  going  to  get  married." 


Dora  felt  stunned.  She  had  suspected  this ; 
she  had  felt  it  coming  on  all  along,  and  yet 
when  it  came  it  found  her  helpless.  All  her 
strength,  aU  her  bravery,  yielded  to  that  blow, 
and  there  ran  through  her  such  a  thrill  of 
pain  that  it  made  her  turn  sick  and  cold. 

"  I  have  been  engaged  for  the  last  year," 
continued  Mr.  Templemore,  "  and  I  am  almc£t 
ashamed  to  say  that  Eva  has  delayed  my  mar- 
riage all  that  time.  She  was  very,  very  deli- 
cate then,  and  she  took  so  violent  a  dislike, 
founded  on  jealousy,  to  the  lady  I  was  going 
to  marry,  that  her  health  was  endangered. 
Since  then  I  have  tried  to  conquer  her  un- 
reasonable aversion — I  have  always  failed; 
but  she  is  strong  and  well  now.  I  neither 
can  nor  will  sacrifice  my  happiness,  and  that 
of  another  dearer  by  far  than  my  own,  to  the 
caprices  of  a  child.  I  have  for  the  last  half 
year  weaned  myself  from  her  society,  and 
accustomed  her  to  live  without  me,  and  be 
happy.  I  hope  that  she  will  learn  to  bfear 
with  what  is  inevitable,  and  I  must  now  ask 
you  to  use  your  influence  over  her,  which  is 
great,  in  order  to  teach  her  submission,  should 
she  be  inclined  to  rebellion." 

"  I  shall  do  my  best,"  replied  Dora,  in  a 
low  voice. 

Alas  !  she  too  needed  that  lesson. 

"  As  yet  Eva  knows  nothing,"  he  resumed ; 
'•  she  does  not  know,  for  instance,  that  I  was 
to  marry  Mrs.  Logan." 

He  went  on,  but  Dora  heard  no  more. 
Mrs.  Logan  !-r  it  was  Florence — Florence 
pale,  her  brother's  Mthless  love,  who  was 
to  marry  her  brother's  happy  rival !  It  was 
she !  Oh !  she  could  have  raised  her  hands 
appealingly  to  heaven,  and  asked  if  this  was 
just.  She  could  have  done  it  in  the  dreary 
bitterness  of  that  hour. 

He  did  not  perceive  her  emotion — the  gray- 
ness  of  the  evening  concealed  it  from  his 
view.  He  went  on  talking,  and  after  awhile 
Dora  heard  him  again.     She  returned  to  that 


138 


DORA. 


sense  of  actual  existence  which  had  been  sus- 
pended in  her  for  a  few  moments.  Again  she 
saw  the  garden,  and  a  starry  sky,  and  again 
he  stood  by  her,  and  his  voice  spoke  and  told 
her  calmly  what  it  was  so  hard  to  hear. 

"  Mrs.  Logan  and  I  are  cousins — rather  far 
removed,  indeed,  but  cousins  still.  When  I 
came  home  after  my  wife's  death,  I  found  her 
at  her  father's  house  near  Deenah.  H^r  hus- 
band had  just  died,  and  -she  looked  such  a 
child  in  her  weeds.  But  you  know  her.  Miss 
Courtenay — I  need  not  tell  you  what  a  delight- 
ful, ingenuous  creature  she  is.  Apart  from 
the  affection  I  feel  for  her,  it  does  me  good 
to  be  near  her.  She  takes  ten  years  away 
from  me.  But  I  must  not  trust  myself  with 
that  subject.  SufiBce  it  to  say  that  we  met 
daily,  that  we  became  strongly  attached,  and 
that  but  for  my  perverse  little  Eva,  we  should 
now  be  married.  Mrs.  Logan  has  endured 
the  child's  caprices  with  the  patience  of  an 
angel ;  but  I  cannot  allow  this  strange  state 
of  things  to  go  on  any  longer,  and — we  are  to 
be  married  next  month." 

"And  what  am  I  to  do,  Mr.  Templemore ?  " 
asked  Dora,  after  awhile. 

"  Will  you  kindly  break  the  news  to  Eva  to- 
morrow, and  tell  me  how  she  has  borne  it  ?  Not 
that  it  will  make  the  least  difference,"  he  added, 
quickly  ;  "  but  it  will  be  a  great  relief  to  me 
if  the  child  will  only  be  reasonable  and  good." 

Dora  was  silent.  She  felt  too  desolate  and 
heart-sick  to  say  a  word. 

"You  have  great  influence  oyer  her,"  he  re- 
sumed. "  Will  you  kindly  use  it  for  this  pur- 
pose, and  also  to  prevent  her,  if  this  unfortu- 
nate dislike  still  exists,  from  displaying  it  to 
Mrs.  Logan  when  she  comes  ?  " 

"  Here  ?  "  abruptly  said  Dora. 

"  Not  here,"  he  answered,  "  but  near  here. 
Uer  husband,  poor  fellow,  died  in  a  little  villa 
down  the  road,  which  he  bought  two  years  ago. 
It  was  in  coming  to  see  Mrs.  Logan  that  I  was 
smitten  with  Lea  Roches,  and  took  it  on  a  long 


lease  for  Eva's  sake.  It  is  in  order  to  give  her 
temper  one  more  trial  that  Mrs.  Logan  is  kind- 
ly coming.  She  will  stay  a  month  in  her  villa, 
then  return  to  Ireland,  where  we  are  to  be 
married.  I  have  been  preparing  Deenah  the 
whole  winter,  and  I  trust  we  shall  have  the 
pleasufe  of  seeing  you  there  some  day,  Miss 
Courtenay ;  but  I  dare  say  that  my  little  Eva 
will  have  to  remain  here  a  long  time  yet." 

It  was  plain,  though  he  did  not  say  so,  that 
Mr.  Templemore  did  not  expect  Eva's  disUke 
of  his  bride  to  be  conquered  at  once.  But 
Dora  did  not  think  of  that.  She  thought  that 
when  he  had  asked  her  to  become  Eva's  gov- 
erness, and  given  her  mother  a  home,  he  had 
never  contemplated  that  these  two  strangers 
should  intrude  on  his  family  circle.  Eva's 
jealousy  was  the  key  to  the  mystery.  With 
Miss  Moore  to  watch  over  her  health,  and  Dora 
to  educate  her,  he  could  marry,  be  happy  with 
his  young  wife,  and  yet  not  feel  that  he  had 
sacrificed  his  child  entirely. 

"  He  will  visit  Les  Roches  now  and  then," 
she  thought,  "  and  see  Eva,  as  he  could  never 
see  her  if  she  were  in  a  school,  for  instance ; 
and  when  other  children  are  born  to  him  he 
will  care  less  for  her  jealousy,  and  Eva  must 
bear  her  fate,  or  be  forever  an  exile  from  her 
father's  house.  Poor  Eva !  our  case  is  pretty 
much  alike ! " 

"Where  are  you?  "  cried  Eva's  voice  at  a 
little  distance.     "I  cannot  see  you — and — " 

"  I  am  afraid,"  suggested  her  father,  going 
toward  her. 

"  Allow  me  to  put  a  question,  Mr.  Temple- 
more," said  Dora  ;  "  when  is  Mrs.  Logan  com- 
ing?" 

"  To-morrow,"  he  replied,  hastily.  "  Well, 
Eva,  did  you  find  the  Epiornis  ?  " 

"  I  did  ;  but  how  can  you  see  it  ?  " 

"By  going  in  to  look  at  it,  of  course." 

They  entered  the  school-room,  where  a  lamp 
was  burning  with  a  mild  radiance,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  showed  the  print  of  the  Epiornis 


MRS.   LOGAN  AND   EVA. 


139 


to  Dora,  and  again  wished  he  had  been  born 
in  antediluvian  times ;  and  seemed  so  happy 
and  so  light-hearted,  tliat  Doi-a  would  have 
been  very  blind  indeed  if  she  had  not  linown 
it  was  because  Mrs.  Logan  was  coming  the 
next  day.  She  was  not  jealous,  she  had  no 
right?  to  be  jealous,  and  some  natures  are  too 
proud  to  be  jealous,  but  she  suifered  keenly. 
If  it  had  been  any  woman  but  that  one — the 
false,  light  mistress  of  her  lost  brother !  But 
it  was  she,  and  Dora  must  a  second  time  see 
manly  love  bestowed  on  that  little  bit  of  pretty 
flesh  and  blood,  so  brainless  and  so  heartless. 
She  must  see  it.  She  could  not  fly  from  her 
torment.  It  would  meet  her  daily  and  hourly, 
till  they  left  to  get  married,  and  Les  Roches 
returned  once  more  to  its  dulness  and  its  si- 
lence. 

^11  this  Dora  thought  and  felt,  whilst  Mr. 
Templemore,  happy  man,  went  on  talking  of 
the  Epiornis,  and  indulging  in  flights  of  fancy, 
which  made  Eva  laugh  till  she  was  tired. 

"  Poor  Eva  !  "  thought  Dora,  as  she  listened 
to  her — "  your  trouble  is  yet  to  come." 

She  felt  for  the  child,  and  when  Mr.  Temple- 
more  left  them  at  length,  she  resolved  to  tell 
her  the  news. 

"  She  will  sleep  upon  it,"  she  thought,  "  and 
waken  with  her  grief  half  spent  to-morrow; 
whereas,  if  I  tell  her  in  the  morning,  she  will 
fret  or  sulk  all  day." 

Accordingly,  Eva,  instead  of  going  to  bed 
at  once,  was  summoned  to  her  governess's 
room,  and,  unwquted  familiarity,  taken  on  her 
knee,  and  pressed  to  her  breast  in  a  tender, 
though  silent  embrace.  Eva,  far  from  guess- 
ing that  these  were  tokens  of  coming  calamitj', 
felt  delighted — not,  to  be  quite  frank,  at  the 
unusual  fondness  she  received,  but  at  a  long- 
coveted  and  long-denied  privilege — the  en- 
france  of  Cousin  Dora's  room.  How  beautiful 
looked  that  rather  austere  apartment  to  her 
childish  eyes !  The  lofty,  square  bed,  the  old 
carved  prie-dieu,  the  Spanish  pictures  of  devo- 


tion, all  dimly  visible  by  the  light  of  a  lamp 
placed  on  the  toilet-table,  impressed  Eva. 
Through  the  open  window  the  court,  with 
other  windows  with  lights  in  them,  was  partly 
visible,  and  iu  the  stillness  of  the  evening  the 
little  gurgling  voice  of  the  fountain,  which 
household  noises  covered  all  day,  could  be  dis- 
tinctly heard. 

"  Eva,"  began  Dora,  "  I  have  something  to 
tell  you.  I  have  news — good  news,"  she 
added,  with  a  sigh — "  Mrs.  Logan  is  coming 
to-morrow." 

Eva  looked  very  sulky. 

"  She  is  coming,"  continued  Dora,  ignoring 
that  look  and  its  meaning,  "  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more  told  me  this  evening  that  he  was  going 
to  marry  her.  I  hope  you  are  glad,  Eva,  for 
of  course  this  will  add  to  his  happiness." 

Eva  showed  neither  grief  nor  gladness  at 
the  tidings,  but  she  looked  more  sulky  than 
ever.  At  length  the  truth  came  out  with  an 
impetuous  burst  of  tears. 

"  I  hate  Mrs.  Logan  ! " 

"  Hush ! "  said  Dora,  severely — "  let  me 
never  hear  such  words  again." 

Eva  stood  in  great  awe  of  her  governess. 
She  did  not  dare  to  persist  in  her  declaration 
of  hatred  toward  Mrs.  Logan,  but  threw  her- 
self back  upon  weeping. 

"  There,  there,  that  will  do — I  am  not  so 
very  angry,"  remarked  poor  Dora,  with  a  sigh  ; 
"  but  you  must  be  good,  you  know,  and  I  shall 
expect  you  to  behave  unexceptionably  to  Mrs. 
Logan  to-morrow." 

Eva  made  no  promise,  and  Dora  asked  for 
none.  She  could  not  in  her  heart  blame  Eva 
for  her  dislike  of  Mrs.  Logan  ;  moreover,  she 
knew  her  power  over  her  pupil,  and  that  she 
could  insure  external  obedience  at  least  to  any 
reasonable  command ;  perhaps  she  scarcely 
cared  to  ask  for  more.  This  matter  being  over 
much  more  quickly  than  Dora  had  expected, 
she  rang  for  Fanny,  gave  Eva  to  her  care,  and 
remained  alone. 


140 


DORA. 


"  I  suppose  there  are  plenty  of  women  in 
my  case,"  she  thought,  with  a  sigh,  "only 
they  do  as  I  do — they  keep  their  secret,  and 
they  bear  with  their  fate." 

She  sat,  as  Eva  had  left  her,  leaning  back 
in  her  chair,  and  listening  to  the  murmur  of 
the  fountain  below.  She  felt  languid  and 
listless,  rather  than  very  wretched ;  for,  after 
all,  we  must  endure  our  sorrows,  and  fight  our 
battles.  We  cannot  desert  that  grim  captain, 
Grief,  and  enlist  under  other  colors.  Dora's 
present  mood  dealt  not  so  much  with  Mr. 
Templemore  as  with  that  past  which  he  had 
so  darkly  influenced.  She  thought  of  Paul, 
and  his  lost  love,  and  his  early  death ;  she 
thought  of  the  light,  faithless  creature  who 
had  urged  him  on  to  exertions  beyond  his 
strength,  then  quietly  and  carelessly  put  him 
by.  She  went  over  that  sad  story,  and  brought 
to  life  that  buried  past,  and  something  between 
bitterness  and  sorrow  filled  her  heart  as  this 
question  rose  within  her : 

"  Why  are  the  prizes  of  life  ever  granted  to 
some,  and  ever  denied  to  others  ?  " 

Dora  Courtenay  was  in  one  of  those  moods 
when  we  forget  time,  and  take  no  account  of 
its  course.  She  sat  thus,  dreaming  very  sadly, 
and  very  uselessly,  when  her  door  opened,  and 
Mrs.  Luan  entered  the  room.  She  locked  the 
door,  came  up  to  her  niece,  and  stood  before 
her  speechless,  but  her  sallow  face  inflamed 
with  passion. 

"  Dora,"  she  at  length  stammered, "  is  it 
true  ?— is  it  ? " 

"  What  ?  "  asked  Dora,  doubtfully. 

"Is  he  going  to  marry  her? — that  silly 
black-eyed  chit — is  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  how  can  you  know  that  ?  "  asked 
Dora,  much  startled. 

"  You  have  told  Eva — she  said  it  to  Fanny 
— I  heard  them." 

Dora  had  sometimes  tliought  that  her  sullen 
silent  aunt  went  about  the  house  eavesdrop- 
ping— she  was  sure  of  it  now.     She  blushed 


with  displeasure  and  shame,  and  could  not 
help  exclaiming, 

"  Oh  !  aunt,  how  could  you  do  that  ? — how 
could  you  ?  " 

"  IIow  dare  he  tell  you  ? "  asked  Mrs. 
Luan,  stamping  her  feet  and  clinching  her 
hands  in  her  passion;  "how  dare  he?  He 
shall  never  marry  her ! "  she  added,  taking 
off  her  cap  and  flinging  it  on  Dora's  bed ; 
"  never  !  Do  you  think  I  have  forgotten  how 
she  treated  Paul  ?  I  say,  he  shall  never  marry 
her ! " 

As  idle  as  the  wind  which  now  rose  and 
swept  around  the  house  sounded  this  threat  in 
Dora's  ear.  But  she  shut  the  window,  for  her 
aunt  might  be  heard,  and  this  was  surely  to 
be  avoided,  if  it  were  possible. 

"  Dear  aunt,"  she  said,  soothingly,  "  what  is 
it  to  us  whom  he  marries  ?  Our  position  here 
is  not  changed.  She  is  his  cousin,  and  they 
have  been  long  attached  ;  we  have  no  sort  of 
right  to  object  to  his  choice." 

She  spoke  kindly,  as  if  Mrs.  Luan  were  a 
child  who  required  soothing;  and  Mrs.  Luan 
let  her  speak,  and  neither  revolted  nor  remon- 
strated. Her  useless  passion  was  over,  and 
she  was  already  thinking  how  to  act.  Dora 
easily  persuaded  her  to  go  to  her  room,  and 
even  accompanied  her  to  the  door.  "Poor 
aunt !  "  she  thought,  as  she  came  back  to  her 
own  apartment  ;  "  even  she  cannot  forget 
Paul  and  his  wrongs.  Ah  !  it  is  hard  ! — very 
hard ! " 

It  was  hard,  and  in  her  prayers  that  night 
Dora  put  up  a  petition,  asking  that  she  might 
not  dwell  on  the  past  to  the  verge  of  sin. 

Whilst  she  strove  and  wished  to  forget,  Mrs. 
Luan,  who,  to  do  her  justice,  had  about  as 
much  religion  as  an  atheist — not  that  she 
knew  it,  poor  soul !  but  her  mind  was  so  con- 
stituted— sat  in  her  room  meditating  on  her 
plans.  Oh  !  if  Dora — if  any  one  in  that  house 
could  have  known  Iiqw  far  these  plans  of  that 
sullen,  silent  woman   extended !     Slie  had  a 


THE   LITTLE  EED-RIDL^TG-HOOD. 


141 


ruthless  nature,  made  for  conflict,  and  stop- 
ping at  nothing  that  could  insure  success.  She 
now  set  herself  to  rob  a  woman  of  her  happi- 
ness, a  man  of  his  liberty,  and  both  of  peace, 
as  calmly  as  if  she  had  been  a  great  nation 
making  war  on  a  savage  tribe,  or  annoying  a 
neighbor.  With  the  serenity  of  the  just,  she 
said  to  herself  that  hers  was  a  good,  a  praise- 
worthy, a  rightful  course.  Was  she  not  saving 
her  Son  from  a  poor  marriage,  providing  hand- 
somely for  her  niece,  and  giving  Mr.  Temple- 
more  a  good,  amiable,  and  accomplished  wife, 
a  hundred-fold  above  that  silly  Florence  Gale, 
with  her  black  eyes  !  True,  Mr.  Templemore 
loved  the  one,  and  not  the  other ;  but  Mrs. 
Luan  knew  best  what  was  good  for  him,  and 
took  upon  herself  the  part  of  Providence,  with 
the  calmness  of  conscious  rectitude,  and  some 
of  the  insolence  of  long  impunity. 

What  she  did,  or  rather  what  she  resolved 
to  do,  as  she  sat  thus  alone  that  evening, 
brooding  over  the  future,  hundreds  do  daily, 
and  with  the  same  mental  hypocrisy.  Hear 
them  when-they  are  detected.  Their  motives 
were  the  loftiest  and  the  purest.  They  were, 
or  meant  to  be,  benefactors  of  humanity,  and 
especially  of  that  portion  of  it  which  they  se- 
lected for  injury.  Who  of  them  confesses 
that  greed,  ambition,  or  revenge,  was  the  real 
motive?  Not.  one.  And  so,  whilst  Dora 
slept,  her  aunt  sat  and  planned  for  her  good. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Mrs.  Logan  arrived  whilst  Dora  was  in  the 
garden  with  Eva  and  Fido.  Miss  \  ^re  came 
to  them  all  breathless  with  the  news.  She 
had  been  suffering  from  a  secret  the  whole 
winter,  and  her  relief  was  commensurate  with 
the  past  infliction.  So  whilst  Eva  trundled 
her  hoop,  and  looked  unconscious,  Dora  lis- 
tened patiently  to  the  praises  of  Florence 
Gale. 


"  The  only  woman  whom  I  could  endure  to 
see  in  my  dear  lost  sister's  place,"  emphati- 
cally said  Miss  Moore,  whose  regard  for  Eva's 
future  step  mother  was  much  enhanced  by 
Eva's  dislike  of  her,  and  the  necessity  it 
created  of  her  prolonged  guardianship.  "4-nd 
so  pretty,"  she  continued  ;  "  you  will  admire 
her  so.  Miss  Courtenay." 

"  I  know  Mrs.  Logan,  and  have  known  her 
for  years,"  composedly  said  Dora. 

If  she  had  declared  that  she  was  on  terms 
of  intimacy  with  a  Royal  Highness,  Miss 
Moore  could  scarcely  have  looked  more  amazed 
than  she  now  did ;  but  something  in  Dora's 
tone  sobered  her  enthusiasm,  for  after  awhile 
she  left  Eva's  governess  to  her  own  thoughts. 

Eva  still  looked  unconscious — perhaps  she 
had  not  minded  her  aunt's  discourse ;  perhaps 
she  wished  to  forget  all  about  Mrs.  Logan. 

"  This  is  a  wood,  you  know.  Cousin  Dora," 
she  said,  as  they  entered  the  shady  part  of 
the  grounds ;  "  and  suppose  I  am  little  Eed- 
riding-Hood,  going  off  to  grandmamma's  cot- 
tage, you  know  ;  and  suppose  the  wolf  is  there 
before  me,  and  you  are  not  here.  Cousin  Dora, 
or  if  you  are,  why,  you  are  a  lady  walking  in 
a  wood,  and  I  am  a  little  girl,  and  you  know 
nothing  about  me.  Mind,  you  know  nothing 
about  me." 

To  be  known  nothing  about,  to  be  unguided, 
unwatched,  ready  to  be  devoured  by  the  cruel 
wolf,  w-as  evidently  exquisite  enjoyment  to 
Eva. 

"  The  very  child  feels  it,"  thought  Dora, 
with  a  sigh,  "  there  is  a  wild  sort  of  pleasure 
in  independence,  even  though  it  should  lead 
us  to  danger.  Oh !  Eva,  I  feel  as  you  feel.  I 
have  a  home  here  which  ought  to  be  a  happy 
one,  ancliis  not.  Yes,  I  too  long  for  the  wood 
and  its  perils.  -Anything,  Eva,  anything  for 
liberty ! "  ' 

In  the  mean  while  Eva  trotted  on  demurely, 
acting  her  little  part,  but  the  wolf  came  sooner  ? 
than  she   and  Dora  expected.     He  came  as 


142 


DORA. 


they  turned  the  corner  of  the  alley,  under  the 
aspect  of  Mrs.  Logan,  sitting  by  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  side  on  the  old  stone  bench.  She  was 
prettier  than  ever.  Dora  saw  it  at  a  glance. 
Never  had  her  cheeks  worn  a  rosier  bloom, 
never  had  her  dark  eyes  had  a  more  laughing 
lustre.  The  goddess  Hebe  herself  could  not 
have  looked  brighter  or  younger  than  Mrs. 
Logan  looked  as  she  rose  and  came  toward 
Dora  with  the  sunniest  of  smiles  on  her  rosy 
lips. 

"Dear  Dora,"  she  said,  with  that  warmth 
which  she  could  always  put  in  her  voice  and 
in  her  manner,  though  there  was  so  little  of 
it  in  her  heart,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
again ! " 

And  she  pressed  Dora's  hand  very  cordially. 
As  Dora  stood  with  her  hand  clasped  in  that 
of  Mr.  Templemore's  future  wife,  she  fell  into 
a  strange,  sad  dream.  This  was  Florence,  the 
.Florence  whom  her  brother  had  so  loved, 
whom  he  had  entirely  forgiven,  and  toward 
whom  he  had  been  so  indulgent.  Her  look, 
her  smile,  her  voice  brought  back  the  past, 
and  with  it  some  of  its  feelings.  For  his  sake 
Florence  had  been  dear,  after  a  sort  of  fashion. 
For  his  sake  she  had  felt  something  like  ten- 
derness toward  this  light,  frivolous  little 
creature,  and  though  he  had  been  so  cruelly 
wronged,  for  his  sake  still  she  could  not  look 
on  her  quite  coldly. 

This  woman,  such  as  she  was,  had  been  a 
portion,  a  very  dear  one,  alas  !  of  her  brother's 
heart;  how  could  Dora  forget  this,  and  feel 
resentfully  toward  her  because  she  was  in 
a  few  weeks  to  become  Mr.  Templemore's 
wife? 

"  I  will  not  be  unjust,"  she  thought,  with  a 
swelling  heart.  "  I  will  not  be  ungeoerous  or 
mean." 

But  though  her  greeting  was  frierfdly,  it  was 

not  cheerful.     This  Mrs.  Logan  did  not  per- 

•  ccive.     She  was  -not  more  clear-sighted  than 

she  had  ever  been.     Her  utter  want  of  sense 


and  penetration  redeemed  the  frivolity  of  her 
nature,  or  at  least  excused  it.  She  was  per- 
fectly satisfied  with  Dora's  manner,  and  amia- 
bly stooped  to  bestow  a  loving  kiss  on  Eva, 
who,  forgetting  her  part  of  little  Red-riding- 
Hood,  stood  looking  on  mute  and  sulky.  But 
if  the  wolf  himself  had  been  attempting  to  de- 
vour her,  Eva  could  not  have  uttered  a  more 
piercing  scream,  or  flung  herself  away  more 
resolutely  than  she  now  did  at  that  proffered 
caress. 

Dora,  who  witnessed  such  a  burst  of  temper 
for  the  first  time,  remained  amazed.  Mrs. 
Logan  looked  piteous,  and  Mr.  Templemore 
turned  pale  with  anger. 

"  Eva !  "  he  said,  almost  sternly,  "  beg  Mrs. 
Logan's  pardon  at  once." 

But  Eva  glared  at  Mrs.  Logan,  and  looked 
wicked  with  mingled  temper  and  passion. 
She  looked  as  Dora  had  seen  her  father  look 
for  a  moment  when  the  cheating  of  the  Dubois 
was  exposed,  and  the  likeness  was  so  strong 
that  it  brought  back  the  day,  the  room,  and 
the  guilty  pair,  and  his  face  all  before  her 
with  the  vividness  of  reahty. 

"Eva !  "  said  Mr.  Templemore  again. 

Dut  Dora  now  interfered.  She  sat  down  on 
the  bench,  and  she  took  Eva  on  her  knee. 
From  her  heart  she  pitied  the  child,  and  some- 
thing of  that  pity  Eva  read  in  the  eyes  of  her 
yoimg  governess,  for  when  Dora  said  reproach- 
fully, but  with  more  sadness  than  reproach  in 
her  tone : 

"  Oh  !  Eva,  Eva  !  is  this  your  promise  ?  " 

Eva  burst  into  tears,  and,  clinging  to  her, 
sobbed  pitifully,  "  I — I — am  very  sorry — but* 
— but  I  was — frightened — I  could  not  help  it, 
Cousin  Dora ! " 

This  M'as  a  very  lame  excuse  indeed,  but 
Mr.  Templemore,  who 'wanted  to  be  satisfied 
with  it,  said  cheerfully  : 

"  Well,  Eva,  behave  better  another  time, 
and  do  not  be  frightened?     That  is  all." 

Eva  hung  her  head  without  answering ;  and 


THE   DROOPING   TREE. 


143 


to  prevent  a  renewal  of  the  scene,  Dora  took 
her  hand,  and  saying  it  was  time  for  her  music- 
lesson,  she  led  her  away,  followed  by  Fido. 

"  Fido,  too  ! "  plaintively  exclaimed  Mrs^ 
Logan,  whom  the  supercilious  little  King 
Charles  had  never  favored  with  his  liking. 

"  Yes,  Fido  too,"  answered  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  half  amused  and  yet  half  vexed  at 
Dora's  empire.  "Miss  Courtenay  is  a  Circe, 
whom  all  creatures  love  and  obey." 

Some  admonition,  however,  Dora  seemed 
to  bestow  on  her  pupil. 

Mr.  Templemore  saw  the  child  look  up  as 
if  pleading  for  forgiveness ;  then  Dora  stooped 
and  kissed  her,  and  they  walked  on.  He  bit 
his  lip,  though  he  smiled ;  it  was  very  pleasant 
that  there  should  be  such  tenderness  between 
Dora  and  his  child,  but  why  must  Florence  be 
detested  ? 

"  Now,  that's  too  bad  of  Dora  !  "  said  this 
lady,  looking  injured. 

She  spoke  in  a  pretty,  childish  way ;  and  as 
gently  as  if  he  were  addressing  a  child,  Mr. 
Templemore  said, 

"Our  misfortune  is  not  Miss  Courtenay's 
sin." 

Mrs.  Logan  pouted,  but  persisted  in  her  dec- 
laration that  it  was  too  bad.  But  even  as  she 
said  it  her  rosy  face  broke  into  smiles ;  and 
with  nothing  but  good-humor  in  her  black 
eyes,  she  said  merrily — 

"  I  suppose  I  am  talking  nonsense,  as 
usual." 

Yes,  she  was  as  usual  talking  nonsense ; 
but  as  usual,  too,  she  looked  lovely  whilst  the 
silly  and  unmeaning  words  fell  from  her  lips. 
This  was  her  secret;  and  many  a  wiser  man 
than  Mr.  Templemore  was,  could  not  have 
helped  succumbing  to  the  charm.  If  she 
smiled,  the  goddess  of  cheerfulness  herself 
could  not  have  looked  brighter  than  she  did. 
When  she  chose  to  be  silent,  she  had  a  pen- 
sive grace,  almost  verging  on  poetry.  Her 
gravity,  even  though  it  was  in  reality  no  more 


than  ennui,  seemed  to  have  a  meaning  in  it. 
Mr.  Templemore,  indeed,  had  not  known  her 
a  year  without  ascertaining  some  of  the  de- 
ficiencies of  this  pretty  creature ;  but  she  was 
a  pretty  creature,  and  he  was  to  marry  her  in 
a  month,  and  willingly  he  shut  his  eyes  and 
ignored  what  it  was  not  quite  pleasant  to 
Scrutinize  too  closely.  He  had,  moreover,  a 
method  of  dealing  with  her  which  Florence 
was  too  shallow  to  detect,  but  which  was  very 
convenient.  Mr.  Templemore  seldom  or  never 
argued  with  Mrs.  Logan ;  he  seldom  or  never 
explained  anything  to  her;  he  rarely  contra- 
dicted her.  He  heard  her,  he  was  amused  by 
her,  and  he  did  his  best  to  please  her,  accord- 
ing to  her  own  tastes — not  to  his.  Of  course 
this  promised  him  many  a  vacant  hour  for  the 
future,  but  Mr.  Templemore  had  perceived  this 
after  he  had  been  engaged  some  time,  and  he 
was  both  too  wise  and  too  much  in  love  to  de- 
plore it  very  deeply.  So  when  Florence  sup- 
posed that  she  had  been  talking  nonsense, 
and  looked  exquisitely  pretty  as  she  said  it, 
Mr.  Templemore  retained  the  latter  fact  and 
dropped  the  former,  and  looked  at  her  with 
tender  admiration  as  they  vralked  away. 

The  morning's  excitement  had  made  Eva 
feverish.  So  leaving  her  with  Fanny,  Dora 
stole  out  into  the  grounds  before  sunset.  She 
wanted  to  commune  in  peace  with  her  own 
wearied  thoughts — away  from  Mr.  Temple- 
more and  Mrs.  Logan.  But  it  was  not  to  be. 
She  had  scarcely  walked  ten  steps  before  Mr. 
Templemore  stood  before  her.  How  gay  and 
cheerful  he  seemed,  with  how  bright  a  smile 
he  threw  away  his  cigar,  and  coming  toward 
her,  said,  with  the  very  look  and  tone  of  Doc- 
tor Richard — 

"  Do  tell  me  what  you  think  of  that  tree, 
Miss  Courtenay,  and  what  its  slender  trunk 
and  drooping  boughs  suggest  ?  "  Without 
giving  her  time  to  answer  the  question,  he  at 
once  resumed :  "  That  tree  is  a  nymph,  who 
being  pursued  and  overtaken  by  the  god  Faun, 


144 


DORA. 


raised  her  hands  and  implored  Diana.  The 
goddess  of  the  silver  bow  relieved  the  fugi- 
tive's distress  by  bidding  her  take  root  and 
grow  here.  And  see  how  the  poor  frightened 
njmph  keeps  ever  looking  round  at  her  pur- 
suer !  She  has  forgotten,  I  suppose,  that  he  is 
gone — gone  forever,  with  all  the  prettj'  things 
of  heathen  fable.  I  wonder,  Miss  Courtenay, 
what  has  become  of  these  heathen  gods  and 
goddesses,  who  w-ere  so  mighty  once? — can 
you  tell  ?  " 

"No,  Mr.  Templemore,''  she  gravely  re- 
plied ;  "  but  you  are  mistaken  about  that  tree. 
It  is  a  tree,  and  has  a  tree's  life,  and  a  tree's 
hopes  and  fears.  I  saw  it  last  autumn  with  a 
few  green  and  yellow  leaves  quivering  on  it 
stUl.  It  was  no  nymph  then,  as  you  seem  to 
think.  It  was  a  poor  tree,  conscious  of  winter 
and  frost  and  snow,  and  it  stood  thus,  seem- 
ing, as  you  say,  to  turn,  it  was  to.  listen  for  the 
coming  of  the  wind  that  was  to  wither  its  last 
green  boughs." 

Dora  spoke  sadly,  more  sadly  than  she 
knew,  for  looking  at  that  tree  she  thought,  "  I 
too  am  rooted  to  my  fate,  and  come  storm, 
come  sunshine,  I  must  bear  it  and  stay  here." 
The  whole  day  long  she  had  thought  over  her 
lot,  and  she  had  found  no  remedy  to  it.  Ne- 
cecsity,  that  hatd  task-mistress,  kept  her 
chained  to  Les  Eoches.  Means  of  escape,  in- 
deed, were  at  her  command;  but  to  marry 
John  Luan  was  surely  a  worse  evil  than  to  see 
Mr.  Templcmore  with  Mrs.  Logan.  "  It  will 
last  a  month — no  more,"  she  thought ;  "  and 
before  the  month  is  out,  I  may  have  found 
something  else— something  which  will  give 
me  bread,  and  not  inflict  this  torment  upon 
uic." 

"That  girl  is  not  happy,"  thought  Mr. 
Templcmore ;  "  but  what  can  ail  her  ?— is  it 
that  John  Luan?" 

He  was  half  vexed  at  the  thought;  he  would 
have  liked  to  fill  the  house  witH  sunshine  just 
then,  and,  lo  and  behold,  you  two  evil-boding 


figures,  little  frowning  Eva  and  her  melancholy 
governess,  were  already  marring  his  coming 
happiness. 

.  Unconscious  of  the  construction  Mr.  Temple- 
more  put  on  her  unusual  gravity,  Dora  was 
walking  back  slowly  toward  the  house,  and  he 
was  walking  by  her  side.  Both  were  silent, 
both  walked  with  downcast  eyes,  and  both,  as 
th^  emerged  from  the  grounds  into  the  flower- 
garden,  saw  not  the  group  already  gathered 
there.  Miss  Moore  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  sat  on 
garden-chairs  near  the  house ;  Mrs.  Logan, 
wondering  at  Mr  Templemore's  absence,  went 
about  the  flower-garden  as  restless  as  a  bird 
on  the  wing,  and  wherever  she  went  Mrs. 
Luan  went  too,  like  a  big  but  silent  blue-bottle 
fly. 

"  Why,  there  is  Mr.  Templcmore,  with  Miss 
Courtenay,  I  declare !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Logan, 
evidently  amazed. 

"  Yes — they  have  been  to  the  summer-house, 
you  know,"  stolidly  said  Mrs.  Luan. 

"Summer-house!"  echoed  Mrs.  Logan, 
coloring ;  "  why,  there  is  none  here,  Mrs. 
Luan." 

"  There  ought  to  be,  you  know.  Perhaps 
they  were  in  the  school-room." 

Mrs.  Logan  tapped  her  foot,  and  looked  at 
Mrs.  Luan  with  profound  contempt. 

"  The  school-room  is  behind  us,  and  they 
are  in  front — pray,  don't  talk  nonsense,  Mrs. 
Luan,"  she  said,  very  superciliously. 

"  I  don't  mind  it — let  it  be  the  summer- 
house  or  the  school-room,  I  can  trust  Dora 
W'ith  Mr.  Templcmore,  you  know,"  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  buzzing  on  stolidly  ;  "  I  did  not  like  it 
at  first,  because  one  must  always  mistrust 
widowers  or  single  men — but  not  Mr.  Templc- 
more, you  know." 

"  Really,  Mrs.  Luan,  you  amaze  me !  "  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Logan,  turning  crimson.  "Mr. 
Templcmore  and  I  have  been  engaged  for  the 
last  year !  " 

"  lie  did  not  tell  us  so,  you  know  ;  and,  on 


THOUGHTS  CONCERNING  PAUL, 


145 


the  whole,  I  tliink  widowers  are  worse  thau 
single  men.     Paul  always  said  so." 

Paul's  name  silenced  the  angry  reply  which 
rose  to  Mrs.  Logan's  pretty  lips.  "  She  owes 
rce  a  grudge  for  Paul's  sake,"  she  thought, 
giving  her  companion  a  furtive  look  ;  "  and  she 
only  says  all  this  to  vex  me."  So,  with  cool 
impertinence,  and  the  sweetest  of  smiles,  she 
retorted : 

"Dear  me,  I  should  not  have  thought  a 
widower  like  Mr.  Templemore  so  objectioUable. 
Suppose  he  married  Dora  ?  " 

"  Oh !  we  should  all  have  liked  that  very 
much,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan,  with 
perfect  candor ;  "  and  he  admires  Dora  so 
much,  for  he  told  me  so ;  but  would  he  have 
married  her,  you  know  ?  " 

"  Just  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Logan,  with  a  merry 
little  laugh. 

"Because  he  might  only  have  flirted  with 
her,  you  know,"  persisted  Mrs.  Luan,  buzzing 
on ;  "  and  we  should  not  have  liked  that  at 
all." 

Mrs.  Logan  had  no  time  to  answer  or  ques- 
tion, for  Mr.  Templemore  and  Dora  were  now 
too  near,  but  she  felt  both  indignant  and  con- 
founded. What  had  Mr.  Templemore  and  Miss 
Courtenay  been  doing  out  in  the  grounds  ? 
Not  sitting  in  the  summer-house,  since  there 
was  none;  but  then  what' did  it  mean  about 
the  school-room?  There  is  nothing  more 
dangerous  than  a  mixture  of  truth  and  false- 
hood, and  both  these  elements  were  so  mingled 
in  Mrs.  Luan's  rambling  remarks,  that  Mrs. 
Logan  was  incapable  of  detecting  the  wheat 
from  the  chaff.  Mr.  Templemore  had  seen  a 
good  deal  of  Dora,  and  he  had  not  told  her  or 
her  friends  that  he  was  engaged.  How  did 
she  know  that  he  had  not  flirted  with  his 
daughter's  governess? 

Mrs.  Logan  being  quite  capable  herself  of 
flirting,  though  engaged,  could  not  help  sus- 
pecting her  betrothed  of  a  similar  weakness. 
Besides,  she  grudged  Dora  Mr.  Templemore's 


evident  admiration.  She  resolved  to  watch 
them  both,  and  to  read  the  signs  of  past  or 
present  flirtation  in  their  looks.  She  read 
nothing  there.  They  came  toward  her,  un- 
conscious of  all  harm,  and  Mrs.  Logan,  being 
silly,  but  hy  no  means  mistrustful,  thought, 
on  seeing  them  both  so  calm  and  grave; 

"  I  wonder  if  that  old  worry  did  it  to  tease 
me  ?    But  no,  she  is  too  great  a  fool !  " 

Satisfied  with  this  contemptuous  opinion  of 
Mrs,  Luan,  she  laughingly  discarded  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, and  passing  her  arm  within  Dora's, 
led  her  a  few  steps  away,  to  have  a  confi- 
dential chat. 

"  Miss  Moore  says  Eva  is  poorly,"  she  said, 
looking  piteous.  "  Is  it  not  provoking  ?  There 
never  was  such  a  little  worry !  She  does  it 
on  purpose,  you  know.  But  is  it  not  nice  to 
mceti  again,  Dora  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
catalogue  ?  " 

Dora  looked  at  her  in  indignant  surprise ; 
but  Mrs.  Logan's  black  eyes  were  as  full  of 
glee  as  if  there  were  no  gi-ave  in  Glasnevin. 

"  I  must  bear  that,  too,"  thought  Dora. 
"  Well,  he  forgave  her,  and  so  must  I." 

"  What  a  blessing  that  you  have  under- 
taken that  little  monkey ! "  resumed  Mrs. 
Logan.  "  What  should  I  have  done  but  for 
that  ? "  she  asked,  shaking  her  head  from 
right  to  left,  and  from  left  to  right,  in  amaze- 
ment at  her  own  predicament.  "  She  falls  ill 
to  vex  me,  you  know.  However,  Mr,  Temple- 
more is  tired  of  it,  and  we  are  to  be  married 
in  a  month.  Is  it  not  dreadful.'  It  quite 
frightens  me,  Mr,  Logan  did  just  as  I  wished ; 
and  Mr.  Templemore  is  very  kind,  but  still  it 
is  dreadful,  you  know  ! " 

Mr.  Templemore  now  joined  them.  How 
happy,  how  genial  he  looked ! 

"  He  likes  her  so,"  thought  Dora ;  "  and  so 
did  Paul.  Be  it  so,  and  may  he  never  waken 
and  discover  that  he  has  made  a  mistake ! 
May  he  never  repent,  or  have  cause  to  for- 
give ! " 


146 


DORA. 


She  soon  left  them.  They  could  not  want 
her  society,  and  she  needed  solitude.  She 
entered  the  school-room,  to  be  quiet  and  alone 
there ;  but  a  little  snivelling  sound,  proceed- 
ing from  a  dark  corner,  betrayed  the  presence 
of  Eva. 

"  Eva,"  she  asked  kindly,  "  why  are  you 
here  alone  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  alone,"  sobbed  Eva ;  "  Fido  is 
with  me ! " 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  me  in  the 
garden  ?  "  soothingly  asked  Dora,  sitting  down, 
and  drawing  the  child  toward  her,  whilst 
Fido  came  creeping  to  her  feet. 

"  Fou — you  were  with  Mrs.  Logan ! "  was 
Eva's  broken  and  reproachful  reply. 

Dora  sighed.  She  could  not  tell  the  child 
that  she  need  not  be  jealous  of  her  aifection, 
so  far  as  Mrs.  Logan  was  concerned  ;  but  she 
could  soothe  her  poor  little  wounded  heart 
with  more  than  her  usual  share  of  love  and 
caresses.  She  took  Eva  on  her  lap,  and  whilst 
the  dog  curled  round  on  a  cushion  at  their 
feet,  she  sat  by  the  open  window,  and  looked 
up  at  a  pale  evening  sky.  The  sound  of  voices, 
above  which  rose  every  now  and  then  the 
silvery  laugh  of  Florence,  came  to  her  ear 
very  distinctly.  Mrs.  Luan,  indeed,  was  mute, 
but  Mrs.  Courtenay  chatted  freely  and  mer- 
rily. She  had  at  first  been  much  aifronted 
with  Mr.  Tcmplemore  for  being  engaged  to 
Mrs.  Logan,  and  her  manner  to  that  lady  had 
also  been  both  odd  and  perplexed  during  the 
earlier  part  of  the  day.  Door  Paul's  faithless 
mistress,  and  Dora's  happy  rival,  she  natu- 
rally detested;  but  then  she  must  be  very 
polite  and  attentive  to  Mr.  Templemore's  fu- 
ture wife. 

The  contest  between  two  such  opposite  feel- 
inge  ended,  of  course,  in  favor  of  kindness  and 
good  feeling ;  but  for  once  her  mother's  pleas- 
ant little  voice,  blending  so  gayly  with  Miss 
Moore's,  and  Mr.  Templemore's  and  Florence's 
merry  laughter,  grated  on  Dora's  ear.      She 


thought  of  Paul — of  Paul  a  second  time  re- 
placed and  forgotten. 

"  And  is  it  thus  with  the  dead  ?  "  she  said 
to  her  own  sad  heart ;  "  they  have  fought 
bravely,  generously,  but  others  reap  the  sweet 
rewards  of  victory — and  who  thinks  of  them  ?  " 

Alas  !  is  it  not  always  so  ?  When  peace 
comes  after  disastrous  war,  how  many  are 
there  who,  midst  the  joy  of  its  advent,  remem- 
ber the  slain?  They  lie  on  distant  battle- 
fields, their  cold  faces  turned  to  the  sky,  their 
nerveless  hands  still  clasping  the  useless  sword 
or  gun;  and  who  thinks  of  the  ten  hours' 
fight  which  ended  thus  ?  Some  have  crawled 
away  to  lonely  spots  for  a  drop  of  water ; 
they  slumber,  hidden  midst  grass  and  flowers, 
by  sweet  bubbling  streams  ;  but  are  they  more 
forgotten  in  their  solitude  than  the  heaps  of 
dead,  which  say  where  the  fighting  was  hot- 
test ?  And  it  is  surely  well  that  they  all  sleep 
so  soundly.  Let  them  never  waken  to  tax 
man  with  bis  ingratitude,  or  feel  that  their 
blood  was  shed  in  vain  ;  let  them  never  know 
that  careless  Nature  will  yield  her  flowers,  and 
verdure,  and  sweet  waters  to  men  more  for- 
tunate, though  not  more  deserving,  than  they 
were. 

Some  such  answer  came  to  Dora  as  she  sat 
thus  with  the  child  in  her  arms,  and  the  dog 
at  her  feet.  It  had  been  hard  for  Paul,  but  he 
had  prevailed — that  "  had  "  was  over,  and  sure- 
ly his  was  now  a  divine,  an  eternal  present 
soaring  forever  beyond  such  mortal  evils. 

"  And  to  you  also  that  rest  will  come,"  said 
a  tender  voice;  "then  fight  the  good  fight, 
remember  the  reward,  and  grudge  not  the  cost 
or  the  toil." 


CEAPTER  XXVI. 

It  was  designedly  that  Mr.  Templemore  had 
ignored  Eva  since  the  morning's  scene,  but  he 
now  suddenly  remembered  her  existence,  and 
raising  his  voice,  he  said  : 


THE  SCHOOL-ROOM. 


147 


"  "Where  is  Eva  ?  " 

Eva  did  not  answer,  and  Mrs.  Coiirtenay 
said : 

"  I  dare  say  she  is  with  Dora.  I  don't  see 
Fido  ;  they  are  sure  to  be  all  three  together." 

"  What  a  siren !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Logan. 

"  Eva,  you  must  go,"  whispered  Dora. 

"  I  can't,"  moaned  Eva. 

"  I  can't "  meant  "  I  won't,"  but  Dora  felt 
very  lenietit,  so  she  raised  her  voice  and  said : 

"  Eva  is  here,  Mr.  Templemore,  but  she  is 
feverish,  and  I  think  she  had  better  not  go  out 
to  you." 

"  Very  well — I  shall  go  to  her,"  replied  Mr. 
Templemore,  cheerfully. 

He  went  to  the  open  window  by  which  Dora 
was  sitting,  and  standing  outside,  he  said : 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  sleepy,  Eva,  for  Fanny 
is  going  to  bring  a  light,  and  I  shall  let  you  see 
those  odd  letters,  as  you  call  them,  which  you 
were  so  inquisitive  about  yesterday." 

Eva  became  lively  at  once,  as  the  eager 
question  of  "Where  are  they?  "  testified. 

"  Coming,"  gayly  answered  her  father,  "  for 
here  is  Fanny." 

So  Fanny  came  with  a  lamp,  which  she  placed 
on  tlie  table,  and  Mr.  Templemore,  sitting  on 
the  window-ledge,  smilingly  opened  a  roll  of 
papers  before  Eva's  view.  The  happy  leisure 
of  wealth  was  not  wasted  upon  him.  He  was 
a  student,  and  a  close  one.  It  so  happened 
that  he  had  not  found  one  poor  patient  in 
Rouen  since  his  return,  so,  having  time  to  spare, 
he  bestowed  it  on  the  tempting  but  arduous 
pursuit  of  deciphering  cuneiform  inscriptions. 
Here  was  a  puzzle  after  his  own  heart.  The 
table  in  his  study  was  covered  with  the  copies 
of  the  strange  arrow-headed  characters — books 
in  which  the  labors  of  Grotefend,  Oppert, 
Menant,  and  Sir  Henry  Rawlinson  were  set 
forth,  made  a  goodly  pile  near  the  drawings. 
All  these  had  excited  the  curiosity  of  Eva,  and 
even  roused  that  of  Mrs.  Logan.  She  had  even 
asked  to  know  "  wliat  all  that  was  about?  " 


"  Only  Darius,"  he  had  carelessly  replied. 
Mr.  Templemore  knew  better  than  to  talk  to 
his  betrothed  of  the  great  rock  of  Behistan, 
not  merely  because  she  was  ignorant  of  its  ex- 
istence, but  because  her  frivolous  little  mind 
could  take  no  sort  of  interest  in  Darius,  or  the 
god  Ormuz  and  his  dwelling-place. 

"  Only  Darius ! "  she  repeated  with  a  little 
laugh.  "  What  an  old  bore  that  Darius  must 
be!" 

Pretty  women  are  still  pretty  women  when 
they  make  silly  speeches — and  Mr.  Temple- 
more looked  fondly  at  the  sinner.  Unluckily 
she  now  left  Miss  Moore,  and  overheard  hun 
talking  of  this  same  inscription  to  Dora.  He 
had  brought  it  out,  indeed,  to  show  it  to  Eva, 
but  he  included  Eva's  governess  in  the  remarks 
he  made  on  this  subject.  He  spoke  of  the 
great  rock  on  the  frontiers  of  Media,  of  the 
lofty  tablet  inaccessible  as  an  eagle's  eyrie,  on 
which  the  conqueror  inscribed  the  glories  of 
his  race,  the  vastness  of  his  empire,  and  that 
Persian  attribute,  his  hatred  of  falsehood  ;  and 
Dora,  though  as  ignorant  of  this  subject  as  Mrs. 
Logan,  listened  with  attention,  put  a  few  ques- 
tions, and  was  not  answered  with  an  "  Only 
Darius ! " 

*'  He  talks  to  her !  "  thought  Mrs.  Logan. 

She  stood  in  the  garden  a  little  behind  Mr, 
Templemore,  who  did  not  see  her.  But  how 
well  and  how  vividly  Florence  saw  the  picture 
framed  by  the  window  of  the  school-room ! 
A  pale  globe  and  a  black  slate  in  the  back- 
ground ;  on  the  central  table  a  bronze  lamp 
with  a  pure  white  flame,  burning  like  a  cap- 
tive spirit  in  its  crystal  prison,  and  by  the 
window  in  front  Dora  leaning  back  in  her  chair 
with  Eva  on  her  lap,  and  looking  over  the 
child's  head  at  the  papers  spread  out  for  them 
both  by  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  That's  the  school-room,"  said  Mrs.  Luan, 
whom  Mrs.  Logan  thought  far  away,  and  who 
stood  by  her  elbow. 

Florence  started.     She  was   stung   to   the 


118 


DORA. 


very  heart.  Yes,  that  was  the  school-room, 
and  Mr.  Templemore  had  chosen  a  governess 
■who  was  both  pretty  and  young  for  his  child. 
He  had  chosen  a  girl  with  bright  hair,  and 
eyes  both  soft  and  bright — whose  face  ht  with 
unconscious  sunshme  when  he  spoke,  and  with 
whom  it  was  plain  he  liked  speaking.  Yes, 
that  was  the  school-room — there  was  no  sum- 
mer-house, but  there  was  a  school-room ! 
Faith  and  trust,  so  easy  to  the  large-minded, 
and  especially  to  the  large-hearted,  are  very 
hard  to  the  narrow  and  the  cold.  Mrs.  Logan 
was  too  shallow  to  be  a  mistrustful  woman, 
and  too  pretty  to  be  a  jealous  one ;  but  when 
mistrust  and  jealousy  unexpectedly  came  to 
her,  she  had  no  generous  belief,  no  proud  con- 
sciousness, to  help  her  to  repel  either  enemy. 
Their  first  attacks  found  her  helpless,  and 
rapidly  conquered  her. 

Mrs.  Luan  plucked  her  sleeve. 

"  Tliat's  the  school-room,"  she  whispered 
again  ;  "  and  Dora's  sitting-room  is  this  way." 

Mechanically  Mrs.  Logan  followed  her.  Do- 
ra's sitting-room  had  a  glass  door  opening 
on  the  garden,  and  as  this  was  not  closed, 
they  entered  it.  Even  in  the  moonlight  Mrs. 
Logan  saw  that  this  was  a  very  charming 
apartment.  She  had  never  seen  it  before  ;  it 
was  newly  furnished.  Mr.  Templemore  had 
therefore  prepared  it  for  Eva's  governess. 

Florence  could  not  understand  this.  She 
had  never  had  a  child,  and  not  being  one  of 
those  women  in  whom  the  parental  feeling  is 
innate,  she  had  no  just  conception  of  the  love 
a  fond  father  hke  Mr.  Templemore  could  bear 
his  little  daughter.  That  he  should  have  a 
Avhole  suite  of  rooms  prepared  for  Eva  and 
her  governess  was  incredible  to  her.  She  for- 
got that  he  might  have  meant  to  seclude  him- 
self and  his  young  bride  from  all  uni)leaFant 
contact  with  his  jealous  child,  as  much  as  to 
please  or  honor  Dora ;  she  only  felt  that  Dora 
was  treated  "like  a  princess,"  and  she  could 
not  tolerate  tlic  fact — especially  she  could  not 


understand  it.  In  her  indignation  and  amaze- 
ment she  said  aloud ; 

"  I  shall  certainly  ask  Mr.  Templemore  the 
meaning  of  all  this  ! " 

"  She's  Paul's  sister,  you  know,"  sharply  re- 
marked Mrs.  Luan. 

Mrs.  Logan  felt  sobered  at  once.  She  had 
written  some  fond,  foolish  letters  to  Paul  for- 
merly ;  true,  he  had  returned  them,  but  sup- 
pose a  stray  one,  or  that  lock  of  her  hair 
which  he  had  certainly  kept,  or  that  photo- 
graph which  had  gone  down  with  him  to  his 
grave  (but  Florence  did  not  know  this),  had 
remained  in  Dora's  possession,  and  should  be 
produced  against  her  to  Mr.  Templemore,  who 
was  so  convinced  that  she  had  been  forced 
into  marrying  Mr.  Logan,  and  that  he  was  her 
first  love !  It  would  not  be  pleasant ;  and 
some  such  threat  Mrs.  Luan  must  intend  by 
again  bi'ingmg  up  Paul's  name  when  it  had 
really  no  business  to  be  uttered.  So  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan took  the  hint,  and  as  her  little  secret  had 
been  kept  up  to  the  present,  she  resolved  to 
watch  Dora,  indeed,  but  to  do  so  with  silent 
prudence,  which,  alas !  was  the  very  thing 
that  Mrs.  Luan  wanted. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr,  Templemore  has  done 
with  his  Darius,"  she  petulantly  exclaimed. 

And  she  abruptly  entered  the  school-room, 
but  she  found  it  dark  and  silent.  The  lamp 
was  gone,  the  window  was  closed,  and  it  was 
plain  that  Dora  and  Eva  had  left  by  the  other 
door.  Mrs.  Logan  went  back  to  the  garden, 
and  found  Mr.  Templemore  looking  for  her. 

"Where  have  you  been  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Looking  at  Miss  Courtenay's  rooms,"  she 
replied,  with  a  bitterness  she  cculd  not  help 
displaying,  but  which  he  so  little  expected  to 
find  in  her  tone,  that  he  did  not  detect  it 
there. 

"  Eva  is  very  feverish,"  he  said,  anxiously. 
"  I  hope  she  is  not  going  to  be  ill  again." 

"  And  I  feel  sure  she  is — ^just  to  vex  me," 
was  the  short  reply. 


THE   TWO  PORTRAITS. 


149 


Mrs.  Courtenay,  who  was  close  by  with  Miss 
Moore,  unluckily  remarked : 

"  But  Eva  is  really  an  amiable  child,  Mrs. 
Logan — she  took  to  Dora  at  once." 

"  Oh  !  but  I  cannot  compare  or  compete 
with  Miss  Courtenay,  you  know." 

"  Why  don't  you  win  her  like  Dora?"  good- 
naturedly  replied  Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  She  cut 
up  her  white  silk  to  dress  a  doll  for  Eva,  a 
bride  she  was,  and  of  course,  childlike,  Eva 
fell  in  love  with  both  doll  and  giver." 

"  A  bride  ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Logan.  "  What 
a  strange  idea,  Mrs.  Courtenay  !  " 

"Very  natural,  you  know.  Even  little 
girls  think  of  marriage,  and  as  for  grown-up 
ones,  they  hear  of  nothing  else — especially 
when  they  are  pretty.  Indeed,  I  think  they 
have  no  comfort  of  their  lives  till  they  are 
really  married.  And  as  they  must  go  through 
it,  why,  it  is  like  extracting  a  tooth,  the 
sooner  it  is  over  the  better." 

Mr.  Templemore  laughed  at  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay's  philosophy  of  marriage,  but  as  the  gar- 
den was  getting  chill,  he  suggested  that  they 
should  all  go  in.  Only  Miss  Moore  accom- 
panied him  to  the  drawing-room,  however; 
Mrs.  Courtenay  confessed  she  was  sleepy,  and 
Mrs.  Luan  had  already  silently  vanished. 

The  drawing-room  of  Les  Roches  was  a 
large,  old-fashioned  apartment,  with  ancient 
furniture,  a  room  which  Florouce  had  always 
liked.  Her  father  having  suddenly  married 
again,  and  been  presented  with  twin  sons  by 
his  second  wife,  Mrs.  Logan's  expectations  of 
fortune  were  no  longer  what  they  had  once 
been.  Her  present  income  of  a  few  hundreds 
and  her  little  villa  near  Les  Roches,  did  not 
satisfy  her.  She  liked  a  chdteau  like  Les 
Roches  (especially  to  date  her  letters  from), 
or  a  beautiful  place  like  Deenah,  with  a  lake 
and  waterfalls,  to  live  in.  She  liked  lofty 
ceilings,  and  large  rooms,  and  old  furniture ; 
not  that  she  really  admired  these  things,  but 
because  she  had   heard   them  praise^,   and 


especially  because  they  represented  affluence 
and  ample  means. 

The  drawing-room  of  Les  Roches  was, 
therefore,  a  favorite  apartment  with  Mrs. 
Logan,  but  for  once  it  had  lost  its  charm ; 
and  as  she  entered  it,  and  sank  into  one  of 
its  deep  chairs,  there  was  something  as  like  a 
frown  on  her  smooth  brow  as  it  was  possible 
to  see  there.  But  Mr.  Templemore,  who  had 
never  seen  the  fair  Florence  do  more  than 
raise  her  fine  dark  eye-brows  in  childish  won- 
der, and  who  had  no  experience  of  anything 
like  displeasure  from  this  light  but  naturally 
amiable  little  creature,  now  read  nothing  save 
a  slight  degree  of  gravity  on  her  fair,  white 
forehead. 

So  whilst  Miss  Moore  discreetly  sat  as  far 
away  from  them  as  politeness  permitted,  he 
did  his  best  to  amuse  and  entertain  his  fair 
mistress.  Mrs.  Logan  could  not  resist  him. 
The  cloud  passed  away  from  her  face,  her 
pretty  mouth  relaxed,  her  cheeks  got  back 
their  dimples,  and  her  laughing  black  eyes 
looked  as  full  of  fun  as  if  she  had  been  the 
wittiest  of  women.  Hers  was  not  indeed  the 
brightness  of  Dora,  that  fine  light  from  within 
which  gave  so  wonderful  a  glow  to  her  whole 
countenance,  and  transfigured  it  as  if  by 
magic ;  but  it  was  brightness  too,  it  was 
gayety,  it  was  mirth,  and  Dora  herself  had 
often  felt  its  power.  A  comparison  between 
these  two  women  now  rose  to  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  mind,  not  for  the  first  time,  indeed, 
though  it  had  never  been  spoken  before  ;  but 
as  his  ill-luck  would  have  it,  he  expressed  it 
now. 

Without  saying  a  word  he  rose,  went  to  a 
cabinet,  opened  a  drawer,  and  drew  out  some- 
thing with  which  he  came  back  to  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan's side.  If  Mr,  Templemore  had  flung  a 
pearl  necklace  or  a  diamond  bracelet  on  the 
lap  of  Florence,  and  informed  her  that  it  was 
destined  to  Mrs.  Templemore,  all  would  have 
been  well  between  them.      But   though  his 


150 


DORA. 


intentions  on  that  score  were  as  liberal  as 
even  Florence  could  wish  them  to  be,  the 
subject  was  one  utterly  remote  from  his 
thoughts  just  then.  He  quietly  placed  an 
old  morocco  case  in  her  hand,  and  without 
noticing  how  the  sparkling  light  died  out  of 
her  black  eyes,  he  bade  her  open  it. 

Florence  obeyed  with  a  pouting  lip,  expres- 
sive of  disappointment,  but  smiled  as  she  saw 
a  lovely  enough  miniature  of  herself  in  pow- 
dered hair  and  pink  satin. 

"  But'  that  is  not  my  portrait,"  she  said 
after  a  while. 

"No— it  is  like  you,  but  it  is  not  your  por- 
trait. I  bought  it  at  a  sale  in  England,  on  my 
way  here,  so  struck  was  I  with  the  likeness. 
It  is  a  good  enamel,  too,  though  not  equal  to 
this,"  and  taking.it  back  from  her,  he  handed 
her  Nanette's  legacy.  Mrs.  Logan's  color 
rose. 

"Dora    sat    for    this,"   she    said   quickly. 
."You  made  her  put  on  that  blue  dress  and 
\that  old  lace,  but  she  sat  to  you  for  this  por- 
'^ait." 

.^'JDid  you  put  on  pink  satin  and  sit  to  me  ?  " 
be. asked,  amused  at  the. question. 

"  You  had  it  done  from  my  photograph,"  she 
persisted. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  said  good-humoredly, 
"  do  you  not  know  an  old  enamel  from  a  new 
one,  or  ancient  style  of  painting  from  modern  ?  " 
"  I  suppose  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Logan,  ap- 
parently once  more  quite  good-tempered;  but 
at  heart  she  was  unconvinced.  She  looked  at 
Dora's  portrait,  as  she  would"  call  it,  and  she 
saw  not,  or  she  would  not  see,  that  though  this 
was  Dora's  hair,  these  were  not  Dora's  eyes. 
"She  sat  to  him,"  she  thought;  "she  sat  in 
the  school-room.  This  is  Dora  herself  when 
she  smiles,  or  is  pleased  and  happy.  I  have 
seen  her  look  so  again  and  again  whetf-faul 
w^s  by." 

Alas !  the  dead  young  beauty  who  had  sat 
for  that  portrait,  and  smiled  as  it  was  painted, 


had  long  been  dust !  She  had  gone  away  with 
her  smiles,  and  the  painter  on  whom,  perhaps, 
they  were  bestowed  had  gone  with  her.  The 
bright  hair,  the  soft  blue  eyes,  the  snowy  skin 
which  Mrs.  Logan  gazed  at  with  quick  breath 
and  angry  eyes,  need  never  waken  love  or 
jealousy  now,  whatever  mischief  they  might 
have  worked  in  their  day. 

"  Is  it  not  lovely  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Templemiore. 

He  thought  of  the  painting,  but  Mrs.  Logan 
was  convinced  he  meant  the  woman. 

"  Very,"  she  replied.  "Are  enamels  brittle  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  sorry  to  trust  this  one  with  a 
fall." 

"  Then  take  it — I  am  so  awkward,  you 
know." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  but  before  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan's had  surrendered  it  to  him,  the  portrait 
had  fallen  on  the  floor. 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  sorry  ! "  she  exclaimed,  look- 
ing as  innocent  and  as  frightened  as  a  child ; 
but  she  stealthily  stretched  out  her  little  foot, 
in  the  hope  of  flnisjiing  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion. "  Don't  look  at  it,"  she  entreated,  pre- 
venting him  from  stooping  with  a  pretty,  des- 
potic gesture ;  "  I  am  sure  it  is  in  pieces  ;  and 
I  do  not  want  to  be  scolded.  Don't,  Miss 
Moore ! "  she  screamed,  in  her  little  childish 
way,  as  this  lady  approached  them  to  lend 
her  assistance;  "Mr.  Templemore -.will  be  so 
angry."  •    ■ 

"  No,  uo,"  he  said,  trying  not  to  look  as  an- 
noyed as  he  felt;  "  but  you  must  let  me  pick 
it  up,  Florence." 

Again  he  stooped,  again  Mrs.  Logan  tried  to 
prevent  him,  and,  as  ill-luck  would  have.it,  in 
the  attempt  she  upset  a  small  table  on  which 
he  had  placed  the  other  portrait.  . 

"  I  give  it  up,"  ruefully  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and 
laughing,  spite,  his  vexation  ;  "  I  have  no  doubt 
my  lady  in  blue  is  damaged,  and  my  lady  in 
pink  cracked  through — I  give  it  up." 

Mrs.  Logan  was  silent,  and  so  disconcerted 


iiiiiii^ 


6'iiiw/fpk' 


"  OH,  I    AM    SO   SORRY. 


p.  150. 


MRS.   LOGAN  AXD  MISS  MOORE. 


151 


at  this  accident,  tliat  she  no  longer  opposed 
Miss  Moore's  good-natured  attempt  to  pick  up 
the  fallen  portraits. 

"Oh!  dear,"  said  Miss  Moore,  "the  poor 
lady  in  pink  is  quite  spoiled ;  but,  I  declare, 
the  lady  in  blue  has  not  a  scratch  !  " 

"  Oh  !  all  right,  then,"  cheerfully  cried  Mr. 
Templemore;  "I  can  get  another  pink  lady 
any  day  at  a  sale,  but  my  blue  lady  alira, 
cosa  1 " 

Mrs.  Logan's  breath  was  gone  to  hear  this, 
and  she  rolled  her  black  eyes  in  utter  bewilder- 
ment. Mr.  Templemore,  unconscious  of  the 
construction  she  put  on  his  words,  looked  at 
the  two  portraits  very  attentively,  shook  his 
head  over  the  lady  in  pink,  and  smiling  com- 
placently at  the  lady  in  blue,  went  and  put 
them  both  away  in  the  cabinet,  locking  the 
drawer  and  taking  out  the  key — not  quite  so 
useless  a  precaution  as  he  fancied  it  to  be. 
Mrs.  Logan  was  utterly  confounded.  Her 
mind  could  not  very  well  conceive  feelings  she 
was  incapable  of  entertaining.  She  could  not 
believe  that  the  only  value  Mr.  Templemore 
really  set  on  his  enamels  was  an  artistic  value, 
having  not  the  faintest  reference  to  the  regard 
he  felt  for  the  persons  they  happened  to  re- 
semble. She  did  not  understand  that  if  the 
lady  in  bhie  had  been  like  Mrs.  Luan  herself, 
her  portrait  would  have  been  as  precious  in 
his  eyes  as  it  now  was,  bearing  this  strong 
likeness  to  Dora.  All  this  was  incomprehen- 
sible to  her,  and  was  not  even  made  apparent 
by  what  would  have  proved  it  to  another 
woman :  Mr.  Templemore's  unnecessary  frank- 
ness. No,  this  was  rather  an  aggravation  of 
his  offence  than  any  attenuation.  Mrs.  Logan 
was  silly,  and  she  knew,  but  did  not  mind  it. 
She  was  accustomed  to  be  treated  like  a  pretty, 
childish,  foolish  thing  by  Mr.  Templemore,  and 
she  liked  it,  for  she  had  sense  enough  to  know 
that,  manlike,  he  loved  her  none  the  worse  for 
it.  She  was  so  pretty,  that  she  could  be  any- 
thing she  chose,  and  yet  charm  him  and  every 


one  else  besides.  But  it  now  occurred  to  her 
that  Mr.  Templemore  might  consider  her  so 
silly  as  to  think  he  could  do  or  say  anything 
in  her  presence  with  impunity.  "He  thinks  I 
can't  see  through  him,  that  is  it,"  was  Mrs. 
Logan's  indignant  conclusion.  "  I  am  not  so 
stupid  though  as  you  fancy,  Mr.  Templemore. 
Wait  a  while — wait  a  while!" 

Unconscious  of  the  storm  which  was  brood- 
ing in  Mrs.  Logan's  heart,  Mr.  Templemore 
turned  back  to  her  with  a  smile,  and  had  just 
sat  down  by  her  side,  when  the  door  of  the 
drawing-room  opened,  and  Dora  appeared  on 
the  threshold,  rather  pale  and  grave. 

"  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said,  a  little  hesi- 
tatingly, "  will  you  come — Eva  is  really  very 
feverish  ?  " 

He  started  and  turned  pale. 

"  It  is  nothing — nothing  !  "  he  exclaimed ; 
"  but  I  am  going.  Pray  excuse  me,  Florence. 
Miss  Courtenay,  I  am  going  with  you." 

And  with  that  hasty  excuse  he  was  gone. 
The  drawing-room  door  closed  on  them  both. 
He  had  gone  at  her  bidding,  and  she  had 
come  for  him  like  a  fair  and  evil  enchantress, 
to  lure  him  away  from  his  liege  love.  But, 
no,  to  do  her  justice,  Florence  indulged  in  no 
such  poetic  fancies ;  she  had  not  a  particle 
of  imagination,  never  thought  of  spirits  good 
or  evil,  and  was  wonderfully  suited  to  those 
days  of  prose.  Her  only  conclusion,  there- 
fore, was  the  indignant  one  : 

"  Dora  is  about  the  most  artful  and  auda- 
cious girl  /ever  knew ! " 

How  little  we  do  know  of  each  other;  after 
all,  in  this  bright,  clear  world,  where  every 
thing  looks  so  open,  and  is  so  secret  and  mys- 
terious !  If  Dora  had  come  herself  to  call 
Mr.  Templemore,  if  she  had  undergone  the 
needless  pain  of  seeing  him  seated  by  the 
side  of  Florence,  it  was  because  she  would 
not  forget,  not  even  for  a  moment,  the  tie 
that  bound  him. 

"  1  shall  remember  it  again  and  again,"  she 


152 


DORA. 


had  said  to  herself  in  stoic  self-subjection. 
"  I  shall  uot  forget,  or  shun  the  inevitable." 

"  I  hope  poor  Era  is  not  going  to  be  ill 
again,"  exclaimed  Miss  Moore,  looking  much 
concerned. 

"  Yes,  she  is,  just  to  vex  me,"  resignedly 
said  Mrs.  Logan.  "But  if  the  marriage  is 
put  off  again,"  she  significantly  added,  "  it 
shall  be  for  good,  you  know.  Miss  Moore." 

"  Oh !  but  Mr.  Templemore  Tcill  not  have 
the  wedding-day  put  off,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Moore,  eagerly.  "  I  know  it ;  he  has  said  so 
again  and  again." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference 
to  me  ! "  said  Mrs.  Logan,  leaning  back  in  her 
chair,  and  folding  her  hands  on  her  lap.  "  It 
shall  be  the  Vth  of  May,  or  it  shall  not  be  at 
all.    I  don't  care,  you  know." 

She  spoke  with  as  much  seeming  indiffer- 
ence as  if  the  '7th  of  May  had  been  the  day 
fixed  for  a  picnic  or  a  dinner-party,  and  not 
for  the  most  important  event  in  her  life. 
Again  Miss  Moore  attempted  to  mend  matters 
by  declaring  that  Mr.  Templemore  would  cer- 
tainly go  distracted  if  the  Vth  of  May  did  not 
make  him  the  happiest  of  men. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Mrs.  Logan,  a 
little  superciliously,  for  she  was  now  bent  on 
seeming  shrewd,  and  not  silly  ;  "  but  I  must 
have  facts,  not  words,  you  know.  Miss  Moore. 
I  suppose  Eva  gets  ill  every  now  and  then, 
and  Miss  Courtenay  comes  for  Mr.  Temple- 
more, who  sits  up  and  goes  distracted,  eh  ?  " 

This  speech  was  so  unlike  Mrs.  Logan's 
usual  discourse,  that  Miss  Moore  stared  at  her 
in  silent  amazement. 

"No,"  she  answered,  at  length,  "Eva  has 
had  very  good  health  since  Miss  Courtenay 
has  been  with  us." 

Mra.  Logan  smiled  incredulously,  closed  her 
eyes,  pursed  up  her  lips,  and  altogether 
looked  80  significant,  that  Miss  Moore  felt 
not  merely  amazed,  but  bewildered. 

"  Is  he  going   to  remain  long  away  ?  "  re- 


sumed Mrs.  Logan,  raising  her  voice,  and 
looking  haughty.  "  Because  I  am  going.  Miss 
Moore." 

"  Xo,  pray  don't !  "  entreated  Miss  Moore. 
"  Eva  will  get  well," — to  Eva's  ill-health  she 
attributed  Mrs.  Logan's  evident  displeasure — 
"  and  it  will  be  all  right  again,  you  know, 
dear ! " 

She  spoke  as  soothingly  as  if  she  were  ad- 
dressing a  child.  It  was  the  tone  most  people 
adopted  with  Mrs.  Logan  when  they  were  at 
all  intimate  with  her.  But  Mrs.  Logan,  who 
if  she  was  silly,  was  by  no  means  so  childish 
as  she  chose  to  appear,  now  resented  Miss 
Moore's  manner  as  a  deadly  affront,  and  turn- 
ing upon  her  with  sparkling  eyes,  said,  in  a 
tone  which  had  nothing  of  the  child  in  it  save 
its  temper  and  naughtiness : 

"  You  bad  better  not.  Miss  Moore.  I  am 
not  quite  so  silly  as  some  people  think.  My 
eyes  are  quite  open.  I  assure  you  I  am  wide 
awake,  Miss  Moore." 

And  she  opened  wide  and  rolled  her  black 
eyes  in  a  manner  which  fairly  confounded 
Eva's  aunt.  Indeed,  she  was  quite  awestruck 
on  hearing  Mrs.  Logan  hold  out  so  formidable 
a  threat  as  that  implied  by  the  statement  that 
she  was  not  silly,  and  that  she  was  wide  awake. 
For  when  foolish  people  set  about  being  clever, 
and  people  of  dull  perceptions  have  made  up 
their  minds  to  be  particularly  clear-sighted, 
there  is  scarcely  any  amount  of  mischief  which 
may  not  be  expected.  This  Miss  Moore,  though 
not  very  bright  herself,  was  clear-headed  enough 
to  guess.  She  felt  that  danger  was  at  hand, 
though  she  was  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to 
know  from  what  quarter  it  sprang.  Slie  still 
considered  Eva's  unlucky  illness  to  be  the  cause 
of  Mrs.  Logan's  wrath,  and  would  probably 
have  made  some  other  exasperating  reference 
to  the  subject,  if  Florence  had  not  forestalled 
her  by  declaring  that  she  was  not  going  to  wait 
Mr.  Templemore's  pleasure  any  longer.  The 
haughty  words  were  scarcely  uttered  when  Mr. 


DRS.   PETIT  AND   LEROUX. 


153 


Templemore  entered  the  room.  With  a  face 
full  of  concern  he  said: 

"  Eva  is  ill.  I  am  anxious  about  her.  I  am 
going  for  Doctor  Leroux." 

"  Xow  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Logan. 

"  Yes,  even  if  he  cannot  come  I  shall  be  glad 
to  speak  to  him." 

Ee  looked  so  anxious,  that  Mrs.  Logan  for- 
got her  suspicions,  her  displeasure,  and  even 
her  resolve  of  keeping  her  eyes  open.  But  so 
many  unusual  emotions  had  brought  on  a  ner- 
vous mood,  which  now  betrayed  itself  by  an 
hysterical  burst  of  tears,  and  the  declaration 
that  she,  Mrs.  Logan,  was  perfectly  miser- 
able. 

"  My  dear  Florence,"  kindly  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  taking  her  hand,  "you  are  not  to  blame. 
The  poor  child  alone  is  guilty,  but  is  excus- 
able, because  she  is  a  child.  We  are  innocent, 
and  suffer  for  her  sin  even  more  than  she  does. 
I  had  hoped,  indeed,  that  we  could  spend  part 
of  the  summer  here,  but  this  last  attempt  is 
too  unfortunate.  We  must  remain  in  Deenah, 
and  Eva,  and  Miss  Moore,  and  her  governess 
stay  in  Les  Roclies." 

"  Much  the  best  plan,"  put  in  Miss  Moore, 
rather  eagerly.  "  Eva  will  grow  out  of  it,  you 
know." 

"  I  hope  so,"  replied  Mr.  Templemore ;  but 
never  was  hope  uttered  in  a  more  despondent 
tone  than  this. 

"  I  think  I  must  go,"  moaned  Mrs.  Logan, 
pressing  her  baud  to  her  brow ;  "  my  head 
aches  so.  And  yet  I  should  have  liked  to 
wait  till  you  came  back  with  that  Dr.  Petit." 

"  Petit !  "  ci'ied  Mr.  Templemore  witli  a  start 
— "  God  forbid  that  man  should  ever  come 
near  Eva ! " 

"  Ho  can  you  be  so  prejudiced  ?  "  pettishly 
said  Mrs.  Logan ;  "  you  know  he  did  me  a 
world  of  good.  And  as  for  the  other  man,  I 
hate  him ! — he  has  such  a  nose,  and  such  a 
long,  scraggy  neck.  I  wonder  you  can  have 
any  confidence  in  him." 


Mr.  Templemore  looked  half  amused  and 
half  indignant. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "  that  when  Petit  luckily 
fell  ill,  you  got  well.  I  know,  too,  that  when 
you  are  my  wife,  that  man,  of  whom  I  have  a 
perfect  horror,  shall  never  attend  you.  As  to 
Leroux's  neck  and  nose,  you  must  be  mistaken  ; 
they  cannot  be  so  bad  as  you  imagine,  else  how 
could  he  have  got  his  diploma,  you  know  ?  " 

Mrs.  Logan  was  very  much  affronted  at  Mr. 
Tcmpleniore's  banter. 

"  I  know — I  understand,"  she  said,  indig- 
nantly ;  "  but  as  /  have  no  faith  in  your  Le- 
roux, you  will  not  wonder  that  I  do  not  stay  to 
hear  his  opinion  of  "Eva." 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  your  doing  so,"  he 
gravely  replied ;  "  Eva  is  not  so  very  ill,  I  dare 
say,  but  I  am,  as  usual,  nervous,  and  too  anx- 
ious. I  shall  see  you  home,  if  you  are  go- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Logan  knit  her  smooth  brow,  and  raised 
her  arched  eyebrows.  Did  Mr.  Templemore 
want  to  get  her  out  of  the  way  ?  But  she  had 
said  she  would  go,  and  she  would  not  retract 
So  within  a  few  minutes  she  was  walking  down 
the  road  that  led  to  Roueu,  with  her  arm  rest- 
ing on  Mr.  Templemore's.  The  way  was  short, 
but  the  night  was  fair  and  mild,  and  love  is  a 
great  enchanter.  A  few  kind  words  which 
Mr.  Templemore  said,  unconscious  of  the  force 
the  turmoil  in  Mrs.  Logan's  little  mind  gave 
them,  lulled  to  rest  the  tempest  Mrs.  Luan  had 
first  wakened  there.  Besides,  it  was  a  really 
delightful  arrangement,  if  they  were  to  live  in 
Deenah,  and  Eva  and  Dora — the  governess,  he 
had  called  her — in  Les  Roches.  And  then  he 
would  not  care  much  about  Eva,  if  they  had 
cliildren.  Yes,  it  was  all  right,  after  all;  and 
as  Mrs.  Logan's  nature  was  not  merely  light, 
but  buoyant,  she  bade  her  lover  a  very  cheer- 
ful good-night  as  they  parted  at  the  door  of 
her  villa, 

"  I  shall  be  sure  to  send  early  to  know 
about  Eva,"  she  said,  airily.     "  Good-night," 


154 


DORA. 


and  she  skipped  into  the  house,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  Lor. 

Mr.  Templemore  walked  through  the  nar- 
row front  garden,  whence  the  scent  of  flowers 
rose  sweetly  on  the  night  air,  and  he  went 
down  the  road,  feeling  very  sad  and  thought- 
ful. He  was  too  just  to  be  angry  with  Flor- 
ence for  not  loving  a  child  who  hated  her ;  but 
how  careless  she  was,  and  how  little  she 
thought  of  hiding  her  indiiference !  She  would 
sleep  very  soundly  that  night.  It  was  natural, 
but  it  was  hard.  Hard,  too,  in  some  respects, 
was  the  fate  that  lay  before  him. 

"  She  is  a  sweet,  childish  little  creature,"  he 
thought ;  "  I  must  prize  her  as  I  would  a  beau- 
tiful flower,  and  not  exact  from  her  the  bril- 
liant or  enduring  qualities  of  a  gem.  But — but 
I  might  have  chosen  more  wisely."  And  Mr. 
Templemore  sighed,  as  many  a  man  has  sighed 
before  the  marriage-day. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Doctor  Leroux  was  not  within,  so  Mr. 
Templemore  had  to  come  back  without  him. 
He  went  up  at  once  to  Eva's  room.  Dora  sat 
by  the  bed  of  the  child,  half  bending  over  her, 
and  telling  her  little  stories  to  send  her  to 
sleep. 

"And  so" — Mr.  Templemore  heard  her  say- 
ing, as  he  opened  the  door — "  the  poor  prince 
was  wounded  by  the  giant,  and — " 

"  No,  he  was  not,"  impetuously  interrupted 
Eva;  "he  shan't  be  wounded.  Don't  let  him 
be  wounded.  Cousin  Dora !  " 

"  Well,  my  dear,  shall  it  be  the  giant  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  hate  him.    Kill  him.  Cousin  Dora ! " 

"  I  don't  mind  if  I  do.  And  now  suppose 
he  is  dead  and  buried — and  suppose  a  little 
girl  I  know  goes  to  sleep." 

"  I  can't,"  moaned  Eva.  "  Tell  me  another 
Btory." 

But  as  Dora  was  going  to  comply,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore came  forward.     He  found  no  change 


in  Eva.  Her  flushed  cheeks  and  dilated  black 
eyes  still  told  him  the  same  story  that  had 
sent  him  forth.  Strong  mental  excitement 
had  put  her  into  that  state.  When  he  and 
Mrs.  Logan  left,  Eva  would  probably  get  well 
again;  but  till  then  she  would  probably  be 
subject  to  attacks,  both  dangerous  and  wasting 
with  so  susceptible  a  child. 

"  It  is  a  hard  case,"  he  could  not  help  saying 
to  Dora.  "  I  have  every  blessing  life  can  give, 
save  one.  And  I  am  powerless ;  a  child's 
unreasonable  feelings  are  too  strong  for  me." 

His  clouded  brow  and  troubled  look  struck 
Dora.  He  too  was  unhappy,  and  his  sorrow 
allowed  of  no  remedy.  He  could  not  have 
both  Mrs.  Logan  and  his  child,  and  Eva  must 
be  sacrificed. 

"  Poor  Eva ! "  thought  Dora,  looking  down 
at  the  little  flushed  face  on  its  white  pillow. 

He  saw  the  kind  look,  but  did  not  read  its 
meaning. 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  anxiously, 
"  it  is  late ;  you  must  not  stay  sitting  up  with 
Eva.     Where  is  Eanny  ?  " 

"  I  sent  her  away." 

"  But  you  may  want  assistance.  Better  have 
Miss  Moore." 

"  She  is  not  quite  well,  and  aunt  will  stay 
up  with  me." 

He  looked,  and  in  a  remote  part  of  the  room 
he  saw  Mrs.  Luan  nodding  in  an  arm-chair. 
Still  he  was  not  satisfied. 

"You  cannot  stay  up,"  he  said — "it  really 
will  fatigue  you." 

"  I  think  Eva  will  soon  fall  asleep,"  quietly 
replied  Dora. — "Will  you  not,  Eva  ?  " 

She  gently  touched  the  child's  hot  cheek 
with  her  hand,  and  at  once  Eva  seized  that 
cool  hand,  and  laying  her  head  upon  it,  looked 
up  at  her  young  governess  with  something  in 
her  dark  eyes  of  the  silent,  faithful  love  of  a 
dog  for-its  master. 

"She  is  falling  asleep,"  whispered  Dora. 
"  Her  eychds  look  heavy." 


MRS.  LUAN'S  DREAM 


155 


She  would  not  stir,  for  fear  of  rousing  the 
child,  but  sat  patiently  with  Eva's  cheek  rest- 
ing on  the  hand  which  the  two  little  childish 
hands  also  fondly  clasped.  Mr.  Templemore 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  looking  at  them 
both  with  a  sort  of  pain.  "Why  did  not  his 
child  love  the  woman  he  was  going  to  marry 
as  she  loved  her  governess  ?  Why  could  not 
that  good-natured  Florence,  whom  he  loved, 
be  the  mother  of  his  little  daughter  as  well  as 
this  Dora  Courtenay,  whom,  alas  !  he  did  not 
love. 

"You  have  bewitched  my  little  Eva,"  he 
said  to  Dora.  "  I  wonder  if  she  would  allow 
you  to  draw  away  your  hand  now  ?  " 

Dora  made  the  attempt,  but  a  fond,  jealous 
murmur  from  the  child,  who  was  only  half 
asleep,  bade  her  desist.  Mr.  Templemore 
smiled,  and  stooping,  kissed  Eva.  If  he  had 
not  feared  offending  Dora,  he  would  not  have 
minded  to  kiss  as  well  the  pretty  band  on 
which  his  child's  head  rested  so  trustingly. 
But  he  had  a  warm,  generous  heart — too  gen- 
erous not  to  feel  grateful,  and  too  warm  not  to 
express  it. 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  looking  at 
her  earnestly,  "  God  bless  you  for  all  your 
goodness  to  this  poor  motherless  little  girl, 
who,  I  fear,  will  never  have  any  mother  save 
you.  Miss  Moore  loves  her,  but  she  is  not 
judicious." 

Dora  looked  at  him  silently. 

"Yes,"  she  thought,  "Florence  has  got  the 
father,  but  I  have  got  the  child." 

"I  have  a  favor  to  ask,"  he  continued,  in  a 
low  tone;  "I  trust  nothing  will  happen  to- 
night, but  if  that  feverishness  should  come  on 
again,  pray  promise  me  that  you  will  call  me — 
I  shall  sit  up  late  in  the  study." 

"  I  feel  sure  there  will  be  no  need  to  do  so," 
confidently  replied  Dora ;  but  she  gave  him 
the  required  promise,  and  on  that  assurance 
he  left  her. 

Eva  was  very  fast  asleep  indeed  when  Dora 


drew  her  hand  away,  and  left  her.  She  went 
up  to  her  aunt,  gently  touched  her  shoulder, 
and  as  Mrs.  Luau  awoke  with  a  bewildered 
stare,  Dora  raised  her  finger  in  token  of  si- 
lence, nodded  toward  the  bed,  to  imply  that 
all  was  well  there,  then  pointed  to  the  door ; 
but  Mrs.  Luan  had  been  so  fast  asleep,  that 
she  had  no  conception  of  her  niece's  meaning, 
and  it  required  a  whispered  explanation  to 
make  her  understand  at  last  that  Dora  no 
longer  needed  her  presence.  The  fact  at 
length  reached  her  mind ;  she  rose,  and  walk- 
ing stealthily  across  the  room,  left  it,  and 
noiselessly  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Dora  went  back  to  Eva's  little  cot,  and 
bending  over  it,  she  looked  long  at  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  child. 

"He  has  all  but  given  you  to  me,"  she 
thought ;  "  but  if  I  were  Florence  he  should 
give  you  to  none.  If  I  were  Florence  I  would 
have  won  your  heart  whether  you  liked  it  or 
not,  and  made  you  mine  before  I  became  his. 
Oh !  if  I  were  Florence  you  should  love  me 
more  than  you  love  Mr.  Templemore  himself, 
and  he  should  never  be  able  to  part  us  in  his 
affection — to  say  '  I  give  this  much  to  one,  and 
that  much  to  the  other.'  " 

Her  eyes  were  dim  with  useless  tears.  For 
she  was  not  Florence — that  happy,  careless 
Florence,  who  had  fallen  asleep  over  a  novel, 
whilst  Paul's  sister — Cousin  Dora,  the  govern- 
ess—  sat  up  with  Mr.  Templemore's  child. 
Yet  she,  too,  slept.  The  gentle  comforter 
came  to  her  in  the  deep  chair  where  she  bad 
seated  herself  to  watch  Eva's  slumbers ;  he 
came  and  never  ceased  shaking  his  dewy  pop- 
pies over  these  two,  Dora  and  the  child,  till 
bright  dawn  had  left  the  sky,  and  a  sunbeam 
stole  in  upon  them  through  the  muslin  cur- 
tains of  the  window.  Dora  woke  first;  but 
scarcely  had  she  really  awakened,  and  really 
come  back  from  the  torpor  of  sleep  to  the 
quick  sense  of  life,  when  she  met  the  look  of 
Eva's  black  eyes.     She  nodded  gayly  to  her. 


156 


DORA. 


""Well,  young  lady,"  she  said,  "how  are 
you  this  rooming?  Quite  well,  it  seems  to 
me!" 

"You  did  not  finish  that  story  about  the 
prince  and  the  giant,"  was  Eva's  answer.  "  I 
want  to  know  how  it  ended." 

"  It  shall  end  as  you  please,  Eva,"  answered 
Dora,  with  an  easy  compliance  rare  in  authors  ; 
"the  giant  shall  kill  the  prince — no — well, 
then,  the  prince  shall  kill  the  giant." 

"And  marry  the  princess,"  suggested  Eva. 

"  And  marry  the  princess,"  kindly  replied 
Dora. 

"And  so  you  did  really  sit  up  with  Eva, 
after  all,  Miss  Courtenay !  "  reproachfully  said 
Mr.  Templemore's  voice. 

Dora  looked  round  and  saw  him  standing 
behind  her  chair,  and  behind  him  again  Mrs. 
Luan  in  her  night-cap. 

"I  slept — I  did  not  watch,"  deprecatingly 
replied  Dora ;  "  and  I  think  Eva  is  well,  Mr. 
Tcmplemore." 

Yes.  He  went  and  sat  by  her  ;  he  took  her 
hand,  he  looked,  he  questioned,  and  his  con- 
clusion was  that  Eva  was  well  again.  This 
had  been  but  a  slight  attack. 

"And  who  knows,"  he  added  hopefully — 
"  who  knows.  Miss  Courtenay,  but  it  may  be 
the  last  ?  " 

He  looked  down  so  fondly  at  Eva,  it  was  so 
plain  that  no  lover's  happiness  would  fill  the 
void  left  by  her  absence,  that  for  his  sake  and 
from  her  heart  Dora  wished  it  might  be  as  he 
hoped. 

"  But  when  that  day  comes,"  she  thought, 
"you  and  I  part,  Eva.  When  your  little 
childish  love  goes,  as  is  but  right  it  should  go, 
to  your  father's  wife,  you  shall  see  your  last 
of  Cousin  Dora." 

As  if  answering  her  thought,  Mr.  Temple- 
more  said  gravely,  "I  dare  not  expect  so 
happy  a  result  just  yet,  and  I  thmk  that  in 
the  mean  while  we  must  be  very  cautious." 

ITc  looked  at  Dora,  and  Dora  guessed  liis 


meaning.  Eva  was  to  see  as  httle  as  possible 
of  Mrs.  Logan.  She  nodded  assent,  and,  after 
a  while,  Mr.  Tcmplemore  left  the  room. 

"  What  a  storm  there  was  last  night ! "  said 
Mrs.  Luan,  taking  off  her  night-cap  and  fling, 
ing  it  across  the  room. 

"A  storm  !"  exclaimed  Dora,  amazed. 

"  Yes,  how  it  rolled  and  rolled,  and  rattled 
and  rattled!"  said  Mrs.  Luan,  shaking  her 
head  as  if  it  still  ached  with  the  noise  ;  "  there 
never  was  such  a  storm,  I  think." 

"  Aunt,  you  must  be  mistaken:  True,  I 
slept,  but  I  also  woke  now  and  then,  and  the 
moon  shone,  and  the  sky  had  not  a  cloud." 

"  Why,  I  came  and  looked  at  you;  I  was 
here  the  best  part  of  the  night,  and  I  tell  you 
the  blue  lightning  did  nothing  but  play  about 
Eva  and  you.  Of  course,  you  were  both 
asleep." 

Dora  went  up  to  her. 

"  My.  dear  aunt,"  she  said  gravely,  "  you 
must  not  talk  so.  There  was  no  storm.  Put 
on  your  cap — it  was  all  a  dream  ! " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  at  her  sullenlj',  but  she 
did  put  on  her  cap,  as  Dora  bade  her ;  and, 
after  a  while,  she  said  sulkily  : 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so — it  was  all  a  dream — 
all  a  dream  !  "  and,  to  Dora's  relief  she  left  the 
room.  * 

As  soon  as  she  had  left  Eva  in  Fanny's 
care,  Dora  went  to  her  mother's  room.  She 
found  Mrs.  Courtenay  up  and  dressed,  and 
very  cross. 

"  There  never  was  such  an  old  fidget  as  your 
aunt,"  she  said — Mrs.  Luan  was  two  years  her 
junior — "she  did  not  sleep  all  night,  I  sup- 
pose, and  she  would  not  let  me  sleep  either. 
She  came  in  .nnd  out  of  my  room,  talking  of 
the  thunder  and  the  lightnmg  till  she  almost 
drove  me  wild." 

Dora  was  much  concerned. 

"  I  wish  she  were  with  John,"  she  said — 
"  indeed,  I  am  anxious  about  her ;  and  I  came 
to  ask  you,  mamma,  to  stay  with  her  as  much 


HER  MENTAL   AND   MORAL   PECULIARITIES. 


157 


as  you  can,  aad  cheer  her — also  you  could  no- 
tice if  these  strange  fancies  continue." 

"  My  dear  child,  your  aunt  had  strange  fan- 
cies before  you  were  born,  and  your  aunt  will 
have  strange  fancies  till  she  is  in  her  grave. 
Her  fancy  just  now  seems  to  run  on  thunder 
and  lightning,  but  I  remember  how  it  was 
cheese  for  seven  months.  Everything,  she 
declared,  tasted  of  cheese,  or  was  cheese ; 
when  that  passed  away  she  raved  about  cats, 
and  had  five  of  them  in  the  house.  We  were 
run  over  with  kittens  for  I  don't  know  how 
long.  They  were  very  pretty,  but  great 
thieves,  and  I  think  that  cured  your  aunt  of 
them.  However,  I  shall  try  and  cheer  her  a 
bit,  poor  thing  !  I  fancy  she  is  vexed  at  Mr. 
Templemore's  marrying  that  little  flirt ;  and  it 
is  provoking  when  we  had  made  up  our  minds 
that  it  should  be  you,  you  know  !  " 

"  Mamma,  pray  do  not,"  entreated  Dora, 
looking  both  mortified  and  pained. 

"  Very  well,"  resignedly  said  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay ;  "  of  course,  if  you  don't  like  it,  or  didn't 
like  him,  there  is  nothing  to  be  said  or  done  ; 
but,  as  I  said,  I  shall  cheer  Mrs.  Luan." 

Mrs.  Courteuay  evidently  considered  the 
task  of  cheering  Mrs.  Luan  a  charitable  sort  of 
bore,  but  also  one  which  lay  within  her  j^ower. 
Howsoever  right  the  former  conclusion  might 
be,  the  latter  one  rested  on  a  great  mistake. 
Mrs.  Luan  did  not  want  being  cheered,  for 
the  more  Mrs.  Courtenay  forced  her  company 
upon  her,  the  more  she  shunned  and  tacitly 
declined  it.  In  vain  her  kind  little  sister-in- 
law  followed  her  about,  "  cheering  "  her ;  Mrs. 
Luan  gave  her  a  wary  look  out  of  the  corner 
of  her  sullen  eye,  and  dropped  her  when  Mrs. 
Courtenay  was .  least  on  her  guard,  or  could 
not  follow  her.  This  she  did  several  times, 
till  Mrs.  Courtenay,  perceiving  her  object, 
got  affronted,  and  gave  up  cheering  her  un- 
gracious, thankless  relative. 

"  She  runs  away  from  me  as  fast  as  if  she 
were  a  spider,  and  I  the  housemaid  with  the 


broom  !  "  indignantly  thought  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay ;  and  the  comparison  was  far  more  apt 
than  she  imagined  it  to  be.  Mrs.  Luan  was 
no  longer  the  blue-bottle  buzzing  in  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan's heedless  ear.  Tiiey  had  changed  parts. 
One  lady  was  the  foolish  fly,  and  the  other 
the  cunning  spider  by  whom  it  was  to  be  en- 
snared. 

There  is  a  terrible  power  in  "  one  idea."  A 
power  which  is  often  the  stronger  that  it  is 
embodied  in  a  narrow  mind.  No  fancy,  no 
imagination,  no  tenderness,  could  divert  Mrs. 
Luan  from  a  purpose  once  conceived ;  and  this 
tenacity,  which  is  always  dangerous,  was  the 
more  formidable  in  her,  that  no  strong  moral 
law  controlled  it.  She  had  but  a  weak  sense 
of  right  and  wrong,  and  she  had  done  nothing 
to  make  that  weak  sense  stronger.  The  evil 
she  did  she  also  loved,  and  the  deeper  she 
sank  into  that  slough,  the  better  she  liked  it. 
In  her  was  fulfilled  the  terrible  progression  of 
'  sin ;  for  however  deficient,  or  erratic,  or  unrea- 
sonable was  her  mind,  there  was  sin  in  her,  as 
there  often  is  even  in  the  insane — not,  indeed, 
when  they  are  actually  insane,  but  because  their 
sin  has  helped  their  insanity.  All  moral  evil 
is  a  want  of  reason,  since  there  can  be  no  evil 
where  there  is  perfect  reason ;  but  unless  that 
want  be  total — and  it  is  rarely  so — there  is 
guilt.  So  says  the  law,  and  with  it  the  com- 
mon-sense of  every  country.  Her  will,  her 
interest,  had  been  Mrs.  Luan's  rule  of  life,  and 
she  now  reaped  the  fruit  of  this  selfish  doc- 
trine. When  a  strong  and  criminal  tempta- 
tion came  to  her,  she  could  not  resist  it,  or,  at 
least,  her  power  to  do  so  was  very  restricted. 
She  was  accustomed  to  be  reckless  in  small 
things,  and  she  knew  not  how  to  be  careful  or 
timorous,  even  though  the  stakes  were  heavy. 
The  end  in  view  was  all  she  saw,  or  cared  to 
see — the  abyss  between  her  and  that  end  she 
both  ignored  and  contemned.  It  was  nothing 
to  her,  she  was  not  to  be  the  victim.  In  that 
dark  pit  she  would  throw  Mr.  Teraplcmore, 


158 


DORA. 


Florence,  Dora  even,  if  it  were  needed — and 
Mrs.  Luan  did  not  care,  provided  she  prevailed. 
She  did  not,  indeed,  put  the  matter  in  that 
light,  there  was  no  need  to  be  so  tragic  about 
it ;  and  as  Mrs.  Luan  had  no  imagination,  she 
could  not  exaggerate  to  herself  the  conse- 
quences of  her  actions,  nor  perhaps  conceive 
them  in  all  their  bearings.  She  saw  but  one 
thing,  and  thought  of  but  one  thing :  "  Dora 
shall  not  marry  John,"  and  its  corollary,  "  Mr. 
Templemore  shall  marry  Dora  !  " 

In  that  mood,  and  with  that  thought,  she 
watched  and  waited  for  Mrs.  Logan. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

No  inquiry  concerning  Eva  was  sent  in  by 
Mrs.  Logan  the  next  day.  Mrs.  Logan's  head 
ached,  and  she  lay  moaning  on  the  sofa,  and 
forgot  all  about  Eva.  Nay,  she  thought  her- 
self ill-used  because  Mr,  Templemore  did  not 
come  to  ask  what  ailed  her ;  and  when  he  ap- 
peared at  length,  she  burst  forth  into  reproach- 
fid  lamentations,  and  was  silent  concerning  his 
child. 

"  She  has  not  much  reason  to  love  her," 
thought  Mr.  Templemore ;  but  he  thought,  too, 
that  for  his  sake,  at  least,  she  might  have  re- 
membered the  little  sinner. 

"You  might,  at  least,  have  sent  round  to 
know  how  I  was,  since  you  were  too  much  en- 
gaged with  Darius  to  come  ! "  said  Mrs.  Logan, 
very  tartly.  "Fanny,  or  Miss  Courtenay— 
any  one ! " 

This  was  said  with  considerable  imperti- 
nence, and  Mr.  Templemore  colored  deeply; 
but  he  looked  at  some  flowers  in  a  stand,  and 
counted  their  petals,  before  he  trusted  himself 
to  say. 

"Florence,  that  is  not  right." 

Mrs.  Logan  was  reclining  on  the  sofa  in 
her  pretty  sitting-room  ;  but  though  the  shut- 
ters were  dosed,  and  the  room  was  darkened. 


Mr.  Templemore  could  see  her  color  rise  as  he 
spoke  thus,  very  gravely. 

"  I  believe  you  have  a  great  regard  for  Miss 
Courtenay  ! "  she  exclaimed,  sitting  up,  and 
forgetting  her  headache. 

"  Very  great,"  he  replied,  gravely. 

"  I  believe  you  admire  her  as  well." 

"  Very  much." 

Mrs.  Logan's  dark  eyes  flashed 

"  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said,  "  do  you  think 
I  am  going  to  allow  that  ?  " 

"And  pray  why  should  you  not?"  He 
spoke  with  irritating  calmness.  "  I  thought," 
he  continued,  "  that  you  and  Miss  Courtenay 
were  old  friends." 

"I  detest  her!"  cried  Mrs.  Logan — "you 
like  her,  Eva  likes  her — " 

"And  Fido  likes  her,"  he  suggested,  with  a 
smile. 

"  Who  would  not  admire  so  perfect  a 
creature  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Logan,  enraged  at  his 
composure ;  "  only,  if  your  feelings  are  so 
strong  on  the  subject,  Mr.  Templemore,  why 
don't  you  marry  her?  Just  tell  me  that? 
Why  don't  you  marry  her  ?  " 

He  rose  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Florence  ! "  he  said — "  Florence  t  "  He 
was  angry — deeply  angry ;  and  this,  joined  to 
a  quick  sense  of  her  own  imprudence,  brought 
Mrs.  Logan  to  her  senses.  Not  knowing  what 
to  do,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  as  it  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  done  so,  she  was  at 
once  forgiven.  "But  never  do  it  again,"  he 
said,  wiping  her  tears  away — "  never  do  it,  my 
dear  child." 

Mrs.  Logan  liked  being  called  "  my  dear 
child,"  and  being  treated  like  a  silly  little 
thing,  so  she  smiled,  shook  her  head,  and 
said : 

"  Well,  you  know,  I  like  Dora  very  well,  only 
she  is  awfully  clever.     She  overpowers  me." 

"  Not  with  speech,  surely  ?  " 

"  Oh  I  she  is  silent  with  me  ;  but  she  talks 
to  you." 


FLORENCE'S  JEALOUSY. 


159 


Mr.  Templemore  bit  his  lip.  So  he  must 
have  a  jealous  Florence  as  well  as  a  jealous 
Eva?  But  he  would  not  resent  this  speech, 
and  prudently  rose  to  go. 

"You  are  in  a  mighty  hurry,"  Florence  said, 
ironically. 

"  I  received  a  telegram  from  my  solicitor 
this  morning,  and  I  must  answer  it;  but  I 
shall  come  again  after  dinner,  to  see  if  your 
headache  is  better." 

Again  Florence  was  pacified.  A  telegram 
from  Mr.  Templemore's  solicitor  could  only 
refer  to  marriage  settlements.  She  smiled 
one  of  those  sweet,  bright  smiles  which  none 
who  saw  could  help  loving,  and  sinking  back 
on  the  sofa,  she  said,  coaxingly, 

"  Mind  you  come  early." 

"  Very  early,"  replied  Mr.  Templemore,  and 
he  too  smiled ;  but  as  the  door  closed  upon 
him,  and  he  walked  through  the  little  garden 
to  the  road,  and  thence  on  to  Les  Roches,  he 
thought  with  some  bitterness  :  "  She  is  a  child, 
and  she  has  a  child's  want  of  reason,  as  well  as 
a  child's  artlessness,  so  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  to  that."  It  was  easy  to  say  it — easier 
than  to  act  upon  it.  The  thoughts  that  came 
to  Mr.  Templemore's  mind  just  then,  whether 
he  liked  it  or  not,  were  not  pleasant  visitors. 
They  were  importunate,  and  though  he  bade 
them  begone,  they  would  not  be  denied. 
"  You  have  been  hasty,"  they  said,  "  and  now 
it  is  too  late  to  repent,  and  you  feel  it.  The 
child  of  seven  may  outgrow  her  folly,  but  the 
child  of  twenty-seven  will  never  be  wiser  than 
she  is  to-day.  You  must  expect  no  ripening 
of  reason,  no  sweet  maturity  of  thought,  none 
of  the  wise  and  tender  graces  which  come  to 
woman  instead  of  beauty  and  its  bloom.  This, 
indeed,  you  have  iu  its  fulness.  Then  remem- 
ber it,  and  since  your  choice  is  both  deliberate 
and  free,  be  content. 

Mr.  Templemore  had  too  much  of  that  phi- 
losophy which  is  the  gift  of  experience,  not  to 
abide  by  this  conclusion,  and  what  was  more, 


not  to  be  in  some  sort  satisfied  with  it.  We 
say  in  some  sort,  because  he  had  already 
passed  that  early  and  fervent  stage  of  love  iu 
which  the  content  is  perfect,  and  the  fond  il- 
lusion complete.  He  could  not  help  it.  The 
wakening  had  come  gently,  gradually,  without 
the  least  bitterness,  and,  what  was  better  still, 
without  removing  Florence  from  his  heart. 
She  was  not  the  divinity  she  had  been  for  a 
few  months,  but  she  was  a  beloved  woman, 
soon  to  be  a  wife,  and  whose  faults  and  im- 
perfections Mr.  Templemore  was  inclined  to 
view  with  a  tender  and  lenient  eye.  Happy 
Florence,  if  she  had  known  it.  Her  hold  was 
strong  and  deep.  Her  whims,  her  jealousy, 
her  little  selfishness,  even,  could  not  shake  it. 
She  might  make  imprudent  suggestions,  and 
waken  dangerous  comparisons,  with  perfect 
impunity.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Temple- 
more both  liked  and  admired  Dora ;  the 
thought  that  this  girl,  and  not  Florence,  was 
the  right  one,  could  not  come  to  his  mind,  or 
move  one  fibre  of  his  heart. 

Florence  had  a  glimpse  of  that  truth  when 
Mr.  Templemore  left  her,  but  it  was  a  glimpse, 
and  no  more,  and  it  soon  vanished  in  darkness. 
Had  he  really  received  a  telegram,  or  was  this 
an  excuse  to  leave  her  and  go  back  to  Dora, 
and  talk  about  cuneiform  inscriptions  with 
her  ?  Then  why  had  he  said  that  he  would 
come  in  the  evening  ?  Probably  to  keep  her 
within,  and  prevent  her  Mm.  seeing  what  went 
on  at  Les  Roches.  No  sooner  had  this  fancy 
taken  hold  of  Mrs.  Logan's  mind,  than  her 
headache  was  gone.  She  sat  up,  found  out 
that  she  was  quite  well,  ate  a  hasty  dinner, 
that  also  she  was  quite  equal  to,  and  went  off 
to  Les  Roches. 

"  The  family  had  not  done  dinner,"  so  said 
Fanny,  who  came  out  bright  and  smiling  to 
show  Mrs.  Logan  in.  But  that  lady  would  not 
be  shown  in  ;  her  head  ached  again,  and  the 
air  would  do  her  good.  Wliere  was  Miss  Cour- 
tenay  ?     In  the  school-room  ?     No,  Miss  Cour- 


IGO 


DORA. 


teuay  and  Miss  Eva  dined  with  Mr.  Temple- 
more  and  Miss  Moore  to-day. 

"  Because  I  was  not  here !  "  thought  Flor- 
ence, turning  away  with  an  angry  blush.  She 
felt  peevish  and  fretful,  too,  because  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore  did  not  come  out  to  her  at  once ;  and 
she  walked  up  and  down  the  garden,  thinking, 
"  He  does  it  on  purpose,  or,  "  He  is  staying  to 
talk  with  Doi-a ; "  whilst  Mr.  Templemore, 
who  was  ignorant  of  her  presence,  was  on  his 
way  to  her  house.  But  even  if  she  had  known 
this,  would  Flo'  ence  have  been  satisfied  ?  She 
was  in  the  mood  when  nothing  pleases,  and 
when  everything  irritates.  She  walked,  for 
the  sake  of  shade,  near  the  old  chateau ;  its 
massive  walls  looked  both  cool  and  strong,  and 
its  long  blaclc  shadow  stretched  over  the 
gi'ound,  with  the  conical  roofs  of  its  turrets 
and  the  tall  chimney-stacks  of  its  high  roof 
cut  out  in  clear  black  lines,  that  faded  away 
as  they  reached  the  green  ring  of  trees  that  en- 
closed the  flower-garden.  But  this  way  was 
both  bright  and  beautiful — though  the  flowers 
iu  the  parterres,  stirred  by  a  pleasant  breeze, 
danced  gayly  in  the  light  of  the  declining  sun, 
all  these  sweet  and  delightful  details  of  culti- 
vated nature  were  thrown  away  on  Mrs.  Logan. 
She  looked  sulkily  around  her,  and  walked  at 
random,  like  a  foolish,  purposeless  little  fly, 
whilst  the  spider  watched  her  opportunity,  and 
spread  her  web  in  the  background. 

"  I  suppose  they  vnW  never  have  done  din- 
ner ! "  thought  Mrs.  Logan,  in  high  displeasure 
at  the  slowness  of  Mr.  Templemore  and  his 
family.     "  It  is  so  pleasant  to  talk  to  Dora  ! " 

In  this  mood  she  turned  back  to  the  house ; 
as  she  approached  it  she  saw  Mrs.  Luan  sitting 
on  a  gardeu-chair. 

"  So  dinner  is  over  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Logan. 

"  Xo,  but  it  makes  my  head  ache.  They  talk 
so! " 

The  eyes  of  Florence  flashed. 

"  About  what  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh  !  Darius,  you  know." 


From  the  spot  where  she  stood  Florence 
could  see  into  Mr.  Templemore's  study.  His 
table  was  covered  with  books.  She  looked  at 
them  resentfully.  Her  jealousy  was  roused, 
and  it  applied  to  things  as  well  as  to  persons. 
It  displeased  her  that  within  a  few  weeks  of 
his  marriage,  and  on  a  day  when  her  head 
ached,  Mr.  Templemore  should  have  time  for 
Darius  and  cuneiform  inscriptions.  A  gener- 
ous woman,  however  much  she  may  be  her 
husband's  inferior,  cannot  feel  so.  She  may 
pine  to  be  like  him — she  can  never  long  to 
bring  him  down  to  her  own  level.  But  Mrs. 
Logan  was  not  a  generous  woman,  and  she 
now  querulously  wondered  at  Mr.  Templemore's 
strange  tastes.  Was  she  to  be  bored  with 
books  and  Eastern  inscriptions  after  her  mar- 
riage ?  Mr.  Logan  had  been  a  great  nuisance 
with  boating,  and  a  new  fancy  of  his — ^hurling ; 
but  really  Mrs.  Logan  preferred  either  taste  to 
learning. 

"  I  shall  be  sick  of  my  life  with  Darius  !  " 
she  thought,  a  little  sullenly.  "  And  what  do 
they  say  about  Darius  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  slowly  replied  Mrs.  Luan. 
"  They  say  Darius,  but  do  they  mean  Darius, 
you  know  ?  " 

Florence  stared,  .then  turned  crimson.  Of 
course,  that  was  it !  Darius  and  cuneiform 
inscriptions  were  the  cloak  these  two  used  to 
converse  freely  in  the  presence  of  witnesses. 
For  jealousy,  not  the  fitful,  capricious  dawn, 
but  the  full  and  burning  reahty  of  the  passion, 
suddenly  invaded  her  as  Mrs.  Luan  spoke,  and 
with  it  came  the  blindness,  the  want  of  reason, 
and  yet  the  perfidious  subtlety  of  that  pitiless 
feeling. 

"  So  they  talk  of  Darius !  "  she  said,  laugh- 
ing.    "  In  the  study,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  but  they  did  last  night,  you  know — 
when  he  came  up  to  Eva's  room  after  you  were 
gone." 

Mrs.  Logan  shook  from  bead  to  foot  with 
anger.     She  had  a  violent  temper,  though  few 


THE  SCHOOL-ROOM   STAIRCASE. 


161 


even  of  those  who  knew  her  best  suspected  it, 
so  well  was  it  hidden  under  the  veil  of  frivo- 
lous gayety  and  pretty  childish  ways — so  seldom 
was  the  wicked,  spirit  roused  from  the  dark 
corner  where  he  could  lie  sleeping  for  weeks 
and  months  undetected. 

"  And  they  were  alone  ! "  she  at  length 
gasped  forth. 

"  Oh  !  no,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan,  not  seeming 
to  perceive  her  emotion,  "  I  was  asleep  in  a 
chair." 

Yes,  she  was  sleeping,  and  the  child  no  doubt 
slept  too — and  that  was  how  they  managed. 
They  made  opportunities  in  Eva's  room  up- 
stairs, in  the  school-room  below,-  in  the  study, 
in  the  garden — anywhere.  She  was  deceived, 
betrayed,  and  wronged  before  marriage  !  Per- 
haps he  meant  to  jilt  her ;  perhaps,  if  he  had 
no  such  intention,  to  supplant  her  was  Dora's 
aim  ;  or  was  it  a  mere  low,  vulgar  flirtation,  in 
which  he  risked  his  truth  to  her,  and  Dora  her 
fair  name  ?  How  could  she  know  ? — who 
would  tell  her  ?  Not  Mrs.  Luan ;  Dora  was 
her  niece.  Xo,  she  would  tell  nothing — and 
yet  she  was  so  stupid  !  Could  it  not  be  got 
out  of  her  ? 

"  How  kind  of  you  to  sleep ! "  she  said, 
tauntingly ;  "  it  is  so  convenient  for  the  third 
person  to  sleep  !  " 

"  But  I  can  both  see  and  hear  when  I  am 
asleep,"  sharply  retorted  Mrs.  Luan — "  oh  !  so 
well ! " 

"Come,  come,"  replied  Mrs.  Logan,  with 
gentle  banter,  and  passing  her  arm  within  Mrs. 
Luan's,  she  led  her  away  from  the  house  as 
she  spoke ;  "  you  can't  make  me  believe  that, 
Mrs.  Luan — ^no,  no.  I  am  not  brilliant,  but 
you  can't  make  me  believe  that.  You  could 
not  repeat  a  word  they  said." 

"  I  tell  you  I  can,"  persisted  Mrs.  Luan  ;  and 
looking  triumphantly  at  Mrs.  Logan,  she  add- 
ed :  "  He  told  Dora  she  was  to  be  a  mother  to 
his  motherless  little  girl." 

Deadly  paleness  overspread  Mrs.  Logan's 
11 


face,  and  she  bit  her  lip ;  but  Jfrs.  Luan,  who 
could  sec  and  hear  in  her  sleep,  did  not  seem 
to  be  so  quick  in  her  waking  hours,  for  she 
stared  before  her,  and  looking  profoundly 
stupid,  was  aware  of  nothing. 

'•  Yes,"  bitterly  said  Florence,  "  she  is  to  be 
the  mother  of  his  child — to  live  here  like  a 
queen  in  Les  Roches;  and,  as  Eva  falls  ill 
when  she  sees  me,  he  is  to  come  here  alone, 
and  I  am  to  wait  at  Deenah.  I  am  to  be  the 
lady  in  pink,  who  can  be  broken  and  trod  on 
with  impunity,  and  she  is  to  be  the  precious 
lady  in  blue,  who  is  to  be  kept  in  a  cabinet, 
and  whom  it  were  death  to  lose — I  see — I  un- 
derstand." 

These  bitter  and  stinging  remarks  Mrs.  Luan 
heard  with  perfect  composure. 

"  What  a  beautiful  evening ! "  she  said. 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Luan,  you  are  not  going  to 
escape  me  thus ! "  cried  Florence,  in  a  rage ; 
but  her  wrath  fell  down  in  a  moment  as  she 
saw  the  cunning  look  in  Mrs.  Luan's  eyes. 
"  I  shall  never  find  out  anything  that  way," 
thought  Florence — "  never."  So  she  laughed, 
and  said,  merrily,  "  That's  a  good  joke,  too,  to 
want  me  to  believe  that  Mr.  Templemore  cares 
a  pin  for  Dora.  Why,  don't  you  see  he  is 
making  fun  of  her  ?  " 

She  looked  at  Mrs.  Luan,  and  Mrs.  Luan 
looked  at  her.  Each  wanted  to  deceive  the 
other,  and  each,  to  her  own  woe,  succeeded. 

The  best  parts  in  the  drama  of  life  are  not 
always  given  to  the  greatest  or  the  noblest 
actors.  The  mean,  the  frivolous,  often  ascend 
the  stage  and  fill  it  with  the  story  of  their 
tragic  wrongs.  A  heavy  woe  lay  before  Flor- 
ence. A  cruel  snare  was  being  spread  for  her ; 
she  was  but  a  weak,  frivolous,  and  jealous  lit- 
tle woman,  incapable  of  a  great  or  an  heroic 
feeling,  yet  she  was  to  suffer  as  if  she  had 
been  a  high-minded  heroine,  and  to  be  sacri- 
ficed as  ruthlessly  as  any  innocent  Iphigenia. 
But  the  Greek  princess  gave  herself  up  to  the 
knife,  and  never  thought  of  revenge ;  and  Mrs. 


162 


DORA. 


Logan  was  bent  upon  it,  and  though  she  was 
too  shallow  not  to  fall  at  once  into  the  trap 
laid  for  her  by  her  enemy,  she  was  yet  cunning 
enough  to  hide  her  thirst  and  longing  for  ven- 
geance. Mrs.  Luan,  indeed,  was  not  in  the 
least  deceived  by  Mrs.  Logan's  affected  skepti- 
cism ;  but  then,  being  only  an  obstinate  and 
relentless  woman,  and  by  no  means  a  clever 
or  a  shrewd  one,  she  could  not  read  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan's heart ;  and  thus  each  fell  into  the  toils 
of  the  other — and  a  jealous  young  beauty,  as 
silly  as  she  was  pretty,  and  a  selfish,  narrow- 
minded  woman,  in  whom  the  long-nursed  love 
of  self  was  fast  turning  into  confirmed  insanity, 
became  the  arbiter  of  a  proud  and  innocent 
girl's  fate,  and  held  in  their  hands  the  weal 
or  woe  of  the  master  of  Les  Roches. 

"Why  do  you  let  him  treat  Dora  so?" 
sulkily  asked  Mrs.  Luan — "  why  don't  you  in- 
terfere ?  " 

Mrs.  Logan  laughed. 

"  Dora  can  take  care  of  herself — besides,  he 
means  no  harm." 

"  Yes,  but  John  would  not  like  it — I  am 
sure  John  would  not  like  about  that  staircase 
in  the  school-room — I  don't." 

In  a  moment  Mrs.  Logan  understood  it  all, 
or  thought  that  she  understood  it.  Mrs.  Luan 
thus  half  accused  her  niece  to  her  because  she 
was  jealous  of  Mr.  Templemore  for  John's 
sake,  and,  thanks  to  that  jealousy,  the  foolish 
woman  could  be  made  to  betray  every  thing. 

"  Wliat  staircase  ?  "  she  carelessly  asked. 

"  Why,  you  see,  Eva  is  often  ill ;  and,  to 
save  time,  Mr.  Templemore  goes  up  the  stair- 
case in  the  school-room,  or  Dora  comes  down 
to  speak  to  him.  It  is  such  a  round  the  other 
way ;  but  I  say  John  would  not  like  it." 

Mrs.  Logan  looked  amazed,  then  contempt- 
uous. 

"  Nonsense,"  she  said—"  you  dreamed  that. 
I  don't  believe  it." 

"  Oh  ! "  I  dreamed  it,  did  I  ?  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Luan,  with  sudden  wrath,  and  shaking 


her  head  at  Florence.  "  Did  I  dream  that  you 
jilted  Paul,  eh  ?  I  suppose,  too,  you  will  tell 
me  there  was  no  thunder  last  night,  and  that 
I  did  not  see  the  blue  lightning  whilst  he  was 
with  Dora  ?  " 

Mrs.  Logan  Stepped  back,  and  looked  so 
startled  that  Mrs.  Luan  grew  calm  at  once. 
She  smoothed  her  heavy  brow — she  smiled. 

"  Why,  Florence,"  she  resumed,  "  you  are 
not  frightened,  are  you  ?  But  just  see,  by- 
aud-by,  if  there  be  not  a  staircase  in  the 
school-room." 

Florence  could  not  answer  at  once ;  her 
throat  felt  parched  and  dry.  The  staircase 
was  the  confirmation  of  Mr.  Templemore's 
guilt — thus  he  could  have  interviews  with 
Dora  which  servants  could  not  know  of.  He 
had  but  to  cross  the  hall  to  go  from  bis  study 
to  the  school-room.  He  could  watch  his  op- 
portunities, or  make  them  undetected  ;  and 
when  Dora  could  not  come  down  to  him,  he 
could  go  up  to  her  under  that  convenient  pre- 
tence of  Eva's  illness. 

"  So  that  is  it,"  she  thought ;  "  that  is  it — 
she  wants  to  marry  John  some  day,  and  yet 
to  flirt  with  my  husband  in  the  mean  time ; 
but  I  shall  put  a  stop  to  the  one,  and  let  her 
manage  the  other — if  she  can ! — if  she  can  ! ' 

Mrs.  Luan  was  looking  at  her  with  sullen 
triumph  ;  but  Florence  only  said,  with  feigned 
indifference : 

"I  don't  care  about  that  staircase — he 
never  goes  up  it,  I  am  sure." 

"  Will  you  watch  to-night,  and  see  him  ?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Luan,  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Logan  dropped  her  a  mocking  curtsy. 

"  Thank  you — you  w^culd  go  and  toll  them, 
and  would  they  not  have  a  laugh  at  my  ex- 
pense, that's  all ! " 

"  I  should  not  tell — I  don't  want  to — I  only 
want  you  to  put  a  stop  to  it.  Tliere's  no 
harm,  but  John  would  not  like  it." 

"  Then  let  John  prevent  it ! " 

"  You  will  not !  " 


"COME  AND  SEE.' 


163 


"  How  can  I  ?  "  asked  Florence. 
"  Oh !  it  is  quite  easy,"  coolly  said  Mrs. 
Luan — "  watch  him,  but  don't  show  yourself, 
and  tell  him  the  next  day  that  he  stays  too 
much  with  Dora.  He'll  say  '  no.'  Then  pre- 
tend to  believe  him,  and  make  him  promise 
not  to  be  so  much  with  her,  and  he'll  be 
frightened,  and  think  you  know  something, 
and  it  will  be  all  right,  you  know." 

"  But  how  can  I  come  and  watch  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Logan,  doubtfully. 

"Oh!  it  is  so  easy.  I'll  let  you  in  by  the 
little  garden-door,  and  we  can  see  them  in  the 
school-room.  I'll  go  home  with  you,  and  he 
need  never  know." 

"  Mrs.  Luan,  you  might  let  it  out ;  and  if 
Mr.  Templemore  thought  I  had  been  watch- 
ing him,  he  would  never  forgive  me." 

She  looked  so  frightened  at  the  thought 
of  discovery,  that  Mrs.  Luan  had  something 
to  do  not  to  laugh  aloud  at  her  simplicity. 
As  if  she  wanted  her  plot  to  be  known.  Oh ! 
dear,  oh  !  dear,  to  think  how  stupid  the  world 
was ;  and  they  all  thought  her  stupid — that 
was  the  best  of  it ! 

"Don't  be  afraid,  Flo!"  she  said,  patroniz- 
ingly; "he'll  not  know,  unless  you  tell  him." 
"  The  fool ! — the  idiot ! "  almost  angrily 
thought  Florence ;  "  does  she  think  I  am 
afraid,  that  I  will  come  and  watch  and  hide, 
and  all  for  John's  sake.  Ko,  if  I  do  come, 
and  if  it  be  so,  let  Mr.  Templemore  and  Dora 
quake,  and  let  John,  let  any  man  marry  her 
after  that  if  he  will,  or  if  he  dare !  " 

"  Well,"  urged  Mrs.  Luan,  "  will  you  come 
and  see  ?  " 

There  was  a  subtle  look  in  her  dark  eyes, 
which  might  have  warned  a  wise  woman ;  but 
the  words  "  come  and  see,"  lured  Florence 
on.  "To  come  and  see,"  to  confound  5Ir. 
Templemore,  to  humble  Dora,  and  send  her 
forth  like  a  new  Agar,  and  to  outwit  that  in- 
solent Mrs.  Luan,  who  only  thought  of  her 
stupid  John.     Yes,  all  these  were  temptations 


which  she  knew  not  how  to  resist.  Yet  she 
seemed  to  hesitate,  and  it  was  with  reluctance, 
with  seeming  terror  that  she  said  : 

"  Mr.  Templemore  will  not  know,  will  he  ?  " 
"No — no,"  replied   Mrs.   Luan,    laughing; 
"  I'll  never  tell  him — ^never,  never  !     All  right, 
he  shall  not  scold  you." 

"  Oh !  dear,  I  hope  not,"  said  Mrs.  Logan, 
with  a  little  shudder,  and  as  if  she  stood  in 
mortal  dread  of  Mr.  Templemore's  scolding. 

But  that  fear,  if  she  felt  it,  she  hid  well. 
Tlie  sunniest  of  smiles  beamed  on  her  pretty 
face  when  Mr.  Templemore  and  she  met  on 
his  return  to  Les  Roches.  Temper  and  jeal- 
ousy seemed  to  have  left  her  as  suddenly  aa 
they  had  come.  Mr.  Templemore  was  grave, 
indeed — perhaps  he  could  not  forget  at  once — 
but  Florence  was  all  sweet,  innocent  glee. 
He  would  have  wished  her  to  go  in,  maybe, 
to  remonstrate,  but  Mrs.  Logan  said  the  even- 
ing was  lovely,  and  asked  to  walk  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  house.  She  felt  a  par- 
ticular inclination  for  the  ground-floor  win- 
dows of  Les  Roches,  and  especially  for  that 
of  the  school-room  where  Dora  sat  with  Eva. 

The  child  had  been  good  all  day,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  dreaded  to  be  so  near  her  with 
Florence.  No  sooner,  indeed,  did  Eva  see 
her  enemy,  than,  giving  her  a  gloomy  k)ok, 
she  flung  herself  on  Dora's  lap,  whilst  Fido 
uttered  a  sharp  bark  from  a  corner  of  the 
room.  Mrs.  Logan  stood  still,  and  looked 
ironically  at  Mr.  Templemore,  who  colored 
with  vexation;  and  Dora,  unconscious  of  their 
thoughts,  looked  at  them  with  sorrowful  resig- 
nation. They  stood  before  her  in  the  red 
sunlight  arm-in-arm,  a  happy  couple,  gazing 
at  her  in  her  nether  gloom  from  the  bright 
serene  heights  to  which  love  had  borne  them. 

"  And  thus  they  will  pass  through  life  ! " 
she  thought. 

"  I  suppose  I  act  like  red  on  Eva !  "  said 
5Irs.  Logan,  moving  on.  "  Very  flattering,  is 
it  not,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 


164 


DORA. 


She  laughed,  and  looked  more  amused  than 
vexed ;  but  her  quick  eyes  had  gone  over  the 
school-room,  and  seen  a  door  which  might  or 
might  not  lead  to  a  staircase.  "  I  must  find 
it  out,"  she  thought. 

There  are  days  and  hours  of  seeming  suc- 
cess, -when  our  schemes  are  favored  to  the 
fulness  of  our  conception.  True,  that  success 
is  more  apparent  than  real,  true  failure  were 
the  real  blessing,  but  we  do  not  know  that  till 
it  is  too  late,  and  we  have  paid  the  cost  of 
our  triumph.  The  small  ingenuity  which  con- 
sists in  plottuig  Mrs.  Logan  had  as  well  as 
Mrs.  iiuan.  She  now  exercised  it  to  her  own 
detriment.  Eva  was  playing  in  the  school- 
room, where  Dora  sat  watching  her,  and 
answering  her  now  and  then  as  cheerfully  as 
she  could,  when  the  child's  flippant  speech 
broke  on  her  thoughts. 

"  Cousin  Dora,"  said  Eva,  "  I  am  going  to 
give  Minna  a  bath." 

"  Yery  well,  dear,  but  mind  she  does  not 
take  cold." 

"  Oh  !  I  shall  shampoo  her,  you  know." 

Dora  did  not  answer,  and  Eva  became  very 
silent.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Logan  came  up  to  the 
window  and  looked  in.     Dora  was  alone. 

"  Eva,  come  here,"  she  said. 

Eva  did  not  answer.  Dora  looked  round — 
the  child  was  gone. 

"  Eva,"  she  called,  uneasily ;  but  Eva  did 
not  reply. 

"  Surely  she  did  not  go  and  give  Minna  a 
bath  near  the  waterfall,"  said  Florence. 

Dora  started  up.  In  a  moment  she  was 
out  of  the  room.  She  did  not  run— she  flew. 
Yet  she  was  scarcely  out  of  breath  when  she 
reached  the  little  cascade.  The  grayness  of 
evening  lingered  around  the  spot,  and  the 
little  pool  looked  both  dark  and  deep.  Dora 
knelt  down,  and  leaning  both  her  hands  on 
the  margin,  she  looked  in.  She  saw  the  peb- 
bly bed,  and  the  water  flowing  smoothly  over 
it;  and  as  she  saw  them,  she   heard   Eva's 


voice  talking  far  away  with  Miss  Moore.  With 
a  sigh  of  relief  she  walked  back  slowly. 

That  slowness  was  favorable  to  Mrs.  Logan. 
No  sooner  was  Dora  out  of  sight  than  she  en- 
tered the  school-room,  opened  the  door,  and 
went  up  the  staircase.  Eva's  room  was  the 
first  she  saw.  She  gave  it  a  rapid  glance, 
then,  opening  another  door,  she  stood  in 
Fanny's  room.  This  was  not  what  Mrs. 
Logan  wanted.  Retracing  her  steps,  she 
crossed  Eva's  room  again,  and  this  time  en- 
tered Dora's. 

She  saw  it  well,  spite  the  twilight.  She 
saw  it,  but  was  blind,  and  did  not  read  its 
meaning.  That  rather  austere  room,  where 
Dora  had  read,  and  prayed,  and  conquered  her 
full  heart — where  she  had  dreamed  of  the  lost 
past,  of  her  brother's  grave,  whence  she  had 
looked  at  the  fountain  in  the  court,  and  pre- 
vailed over  fond  rebellious  youth,  told  none  of 
its  secrets  to  Florence.  She  only  saw  that  it 
held  some  valuable  articles  of  furniture,  which 
she  had  secretly  appropriated,  and  which  Mr. 
Templemore,  unconscious  of  the  fact,  had  ded- 
icated to  Dora's  use. 

"  He  knows  that  I  wanted  that  carved  prie- 
dmi,^^  thought  Florence,  angrily,  "  and  those 
old  damask  curtains,  and  he  gives  them  to  her 
—to  her ! " 

How  could  she  doubt  his  guilt  after  that  ? 
She  did  not.  Burning  with  resentment,  she 
went  down,  and  reached  the  garden  as  Mr. 
Templemore  came  back  with  the  flowers  she 
had  asked  him  for,  and  Dora  approached  the 
house  with  Eva.  On  seeing  Mrs.  Logan,  the 
child  clung  to  her  governess,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  garments. 

"  How  flattering  ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Logan 
shortly. 

Mr.  Templemore  could  scarcely  repress  a 
sigh.  These  last  two  days  had  not  been  days 
of  happiness  to  him.  Eva  had  been  ill  and 
naughty,  Florence  irritable,  and  Dora  sad  and 
grave.     What  discord  had  thus  suddenly  en- 


THE   STORM. 


165 


tered  his  once  happy  home ;  for  whilst  Flor- 
ence had  been  amiable  and  sweet,  he  had 
found  even  Eva's  naughtiness  endurable — but 
now  everything  was  a  trouble  and  a  pain. 
Perhaps  it  was  not  unnatural  that  when  Mrs. 
Logan  spoke  of  going,  because  she  was  sure  a 
storm  was  coming  on,  he  was  not  very  eager 
to  detain  her.  He  said,  indeed,  that  Lcs 
Eoches  was  safe  since  it  possessed  a  lightning- 
conductor  ;  but  when  Florence  professed  to 
fear  lightning-conductors,  he  only  laughed, 
and  did  not  argue  her  out  of  her  fear.  It  had 
formerly  pleased  Mrs.  Logan  that  her  lover 
should  laugh  at  any  foolish  speech  she  uttered, 
but  now  she  felt  affronted.  Besides,  did  she  not 
see  he  wanted  her  to  be  gone  !  Of  course  he 
did,  to  go  up  that  staircase  to  Dora.  But  she 
would  humor  him,  she  would ;  only  maybe 
he  might  repent  it.  He  saw  her  leave,  and 
as  they  parted  at  the  garden  gate  of  her  viUa, 
Mrs.  Logan  said  tauntingly : 

"  Good-night.  Don't  sit  up  too  late  with 
Dora." 

He  wanted  to  answer,  but  with  another  little 
taunting  laugh  she  was  gone.  He  heard  the 
door  of  the  villa  open  and  shut  again,  and  he 
slammed  the  garden  gate  and  walked  home, 
boiling  with  anger  and  vexation,  and  never 
once  suspecting  that  the  pretty  sinner  was 
walking  leisurely  behind  him ;  but  whereas  he 
entered  Les  Eoches  by  the  front  gate,  Mrs. 
Logan  crept  round  to  a  low  side-door  in  the 
•wall,  where  she  was  to  find  Mrs.  Luan,  accord- 
ing to  their  agreement. 

Mrs.  Luan  had  lost  no  time.  She  had  laid 
her  plans  with  that  superfluous  cunning  which 
is  one  of  the  attributes  of  diseased  minds ;  and 
she  carried  them  out  with  ingenuity  and  suc- 
cess. When  Florence  left  Les  Eoches,  Mrs. 
Luan  went  up  to  Eva's  room.  She  found 
Fanny  with  the  child,  whom  she  was  going  to 
undress. 

"  Eva,"  she  said,  "  shall  I  show  you  the 
shell  box  now  ? — I  am  going  to  put  it  up." 


"  Oh !  do,"  cried  Eva,  darting  away  from 
Fanny,  "  do  show  it  to  me,  Mrs.  Luan !  " 

Tills  shell  box  Eva  had  raved  about  for 
days,  so  wonderftil  had  been  Mrs.  Luan's  de- 
scription of  it,  and  so  persistently  had  it  been 
denied  to  all  her  longing  entreaties. 

"  Wait,  Fanny,  wait ! "  she  cried  ;  "  I  shall 
be  back  directly." 

And  Fanny  good-humoredly  complied,  and 
was  willing  to  wait  her  little  mistress's  pleas- 
ure. The  shell  box  stood  on  Mrs.  Luan's 
table  near  a  glass  full  of  a  clear  and  fragrant 
liquid.  It  was  a  lovely  box  in  Eva's  eyes.  For 
it  had  a  rose  made  of  pink-colored  shells  on 
its  lid,  and  white  flowers — strawberry-flowers, 
on  its  side. 

"  Oh !  how  beautiful !  "  cried  Eva.  "  Oh ! 
what  a  box  ! " 

Now  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Luan  be- 
lieved in  the  box  too,  so  she  replied  grimly : 

"  It  is  a  box !  Worth  any  money !  "  so  say- 
ing, she  took  the  glass  and  sipped  some  of  its 
contents. 

"I  am  so  thirsty ! "  hinted  Eva. 

"  You  can't  have  this,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan. 
"They  are  my  drops  —  not  fit  for  little 
girls." 

But  she  put  down  the  glass,  and  taking  up 
the  box,  muttered  something  about  putting  it 
away  in  the  next  room. 

Eva  remained  alone  with  Mrs.  Luan's  drops. 
No  more  tha,n  her  great  mother  and  namesake 
did  she  know  how  to  resist  temptation.  She 
looked  round.  Mrs.  Luan  was  not  coming 
back ;  she  took  a  sip,  then  another,  then  she 
almost  drained  the  glass ;  and  having  done 
this,  she  ran  back  to  her  own  room  in  guilty 
glee. 

"  I  have  done  it !  "  she  said  to  Fauu}' — "  I 
have  done  it ! " 

"Done  what?"  naturally  inquired  Fanny. 
But  Eva  was  not  tempted  to  tell — she  heard 
Miss  Courtenay  in  her  room,  and  was  mute. 

Dora    sat  by  her  open  window   watching 


166 


DORA. 


for  the  storm  which  Florence  had  foretold. 
It  came  at  last.  It  was  not  a  violent  one,  yet 
occasionally  a  flash  of  lightning  filled  the 
com't,  and  touched  the  little  fountain  below 
with  sudden  light;  then  a  remote  peal  fol- 
lowed, and  a  low  rushing  shower  of  rain. 

"When  that  storm  is  over  there  will  be 
calmness,"  thought  Dora.  "  I  wonder  why  it 
is  not  so  with  us.  "Why  we  are  ever  ready  for 
turmoil  and  torment ! " 

She  had  not  time  to  pursue  these  thoughts  ; 
the  door  of  her  room  opened,  and  Mrs.  Luan 
came  in. 

Dora  looked  at  her  in  some  surprise.  Her 
aunt  never  came  to  her  room.  What  had 
brought  her  this  evening  ? 

"  I  feel  that  storm,"  said  Mrs.  Luan,  sitting 
down,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  remain- 
ing some  time.  "  I  feel  it  in  my  head  so." 
She  took  off  her  cap  and  thi'ew  it  on  Dora's 
table  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  makes  your  head  ache,  aunt  ?  " 

"  Xo,  not  ache  ;  but  it  puzzles  me  so." 

She  looked  rather  excited  and  bewildered. 

"  You  would  not  like  to  sleep,  aunt  ?  "  said 
Dora ;  "  maybe  it  would  calm  you." 

"  Sleep ! — why,  what  is  the  time  ?  " 

A  clock  in  the  hall  below  answered  the 
question  by  striking  eleven. 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  all  in  bed  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Luan. 

"  The  house  is  very  still,  aunt." 

"  Yes ;  but  Mr.  Templemore  is  in  his 
Btudy." 

Dora  did  not  answer  this ;  Mr.  Templemore 
sat  up  late,  and  she  knew  it — but  what  about 
it? 

"  I  am  sure  Eva  is  ill ! "  suddenly  remarked 
Mrs.  Luan,  staring  at  her  niece. 

"  She  is  very  well,  aunt." 

"  And  I  am  sure  she  is  ill  with  that  storm 

ill  and  alone,  for  Panny  is  below." 

A  vaguC' uneasiness  took  hold  of  Dora.  She 
rose,  she  crossed  her  room,  she  entered  Eva's, 


closely  followed  by  Mrs.  Luan.  They  found 
the  child  sitting  up  in  her  bed,  with  a  wild 
stare. 

"  Eva !  Eva  !  what  ails  you  ?  "  cried  Dora, 
alarmed. 

But  Eva  did  not  answer. 

"  Go  for  Mr.  Templemore,"  said  her  aunt ; 
"  he  is  in  his  study — go  down  the  staircase, 
and  you  will  get  to  the  study  at  once,  you 
know." 

But  though  Dora  had  no  suspicion  of  the 
trap  laid  for  Mrs.  Logan,  and  in  which  she  too 
was  to  fall,  she  would  not  do  this.  To  go 
thus  and  call  Mr.  Templemore  with  alarm  in 
her  looks,  seemed  to  her  like  striking  the 
talisman  in  the  Arab  story — a  deed  to  be  de- 
layed as  long  as  possible. 

"  But  the  child  is  ill — quite  ill,"  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  stamping  her  foot  angrily.  "  Go — go 
at  once ! " 

"  Xo,  aunt,"  replied  Dora,  firmly ;  "  there  is 
no  need  for  that.  I  can  see  this  is  nothing. 
Eva  was  frightened,  and  had  the  nightmare, 
she  is  well  now." 

"  You  will  not  go  down  to  the  study  and  do 
it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Luan,  stamping  her  foot,  and 
shaking  her  head  at  her  niece.  "  You  had 
better — mind,  you  had  better,  Dora." 

"  Aunt,  I  will  not." 

"  Then  I  will."  Mrs.  Luan  stepped  toward 
the  door ;  but  Dora  forestalled  her,  and  lock- 
ing the  door,  took  out  the  key. 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  at  her  with  insane  fury  in 
her  eyes. 

"  You'll  rue  that,  Dora,"  she  said ;  "  you'll 
rue  that !  I  wanted  to  be  the  making  of  you — 
but  you'll  rue  that  I  " 

Dora  did  not  heed  the  threat  then ;  but  how 
she  remembered  it  later  ! 

"Aunt,"  she  said  soothingly,  "what  ails 
you  ?     I  am  quite  willing  to  ring  for  Fanny." 

"  Do  if  you  dare  !  "  angrily,  exclaimed  Mrs, 
Luan.  Tlicn  she  added,  more  gently,  "  What 
is  it  to  me  ?  " 


MR.  TEMPLEMORE  SURPRISED. 


167 


"  Look  !  "  soothingly  said  Dora,  "  aud  see 
how  well  Eva  seems  now." 

"  Why,  so  she  does  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Luan, 
converted  with  suspicious  facility;  "and  do 
you  know,  Dora,  I  thmk  I  shall  go  to  bed." 

"  Do,  aunt,  it  will  do  you  good  ;  and  Eva  is 
falling  asleep." 

Mrs.  Luan  yawned,  and  looked  very  sleepy 
as  she  rose  and  left  the  room. 

Eva  was  falling  asleep,  as  Dora  had  said. 
She  had  sunk  back  on  her  little  couch,  and  her 
cheek  lay  on  her  pillow  ;  her  eyes  were  closed, 
her  breathing  came  regularly  through  her 
parted  lips.  "  I  suppose  it  was  the  storm 
frightened  her,"  thought  Dora.  And  lest  Eva 
should  waken  again,  she  sat  down  by  her  and 
watched  patiently,  listening  to  the  low  rushing 
of  the  rain.  And  as  she  sat  thus,  Dora  was 
startled  at  hearing  her  name  uttered  by  Mr. 
Templemore's  voice  in  the  room  below.  She 
rose,  she  opened  the  door,  and  hstened.  Yes, 
it  was  he  who  was  talking  on  the  staircase. 

""For  God's  sake  !  what  is  it  ?  "  he  exclaimed  ; 
"  Eva  is  ill  again ! " 

"  No !  no !  "  eagerly  replied  Dora,  unlocking 

the  door,  and  going  down  to  meet  him;  "  she 

was  a  little  feverish,  but  she  is  fast  asleep  now." 

The  color  returned  to  Mr.  Templemore's  pale 

face,  and  he  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  Thank  Heaven  ! "  he  said  ;  "  Mrs.  Luan 
frightened  me." 

Dora  had  come  down  with  a  light  in  her 
hand.  She  still  held  it  as  she  stood  on  the 
last  step  of  the  staircase,  and  Mr.  Templemore 
saw  the  troubled,  startled  meaning  which  came 
to  her  face  as  he  spoke. 

"  Did  you  not  send  her?"  he  asked. 
"No,"  she  answered.    But  the  confusioi;i of 
her  denial  did  not  escape  him.     Without  say- 
ing a   word,    Mr.    Templemore    rang.     Dora 
thought  it  best  to  begin  an  explanation. 

"  I  believe — "  she-  said — but  the  words  had 
scarcely  passed  her  lips  when  the  door  opened 
abruptly. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  She's  very  cunning,  is  Dora,"  thought 
Mrs.  Luan,  as  she  left  Eva's  room ;  "  but  I  am 
more  cunning  than  she  is,  you  know." 

And  with  a  low  laugh  of  triumph  at  her  own 
sagacity,  she  went  down  below  and  joined  Mrs. 
Logan.  That  lady  stood  alone,  and  in  the 
dark,  in  Dora's  sitting-room,  waiting  impatient- 
ly for  the  tokens  of  Mr.  Templemore's  guilt. 

"  Mrs.  Luan,"  she  angrily  whispered,  "  it 
must  be  all  your  invention.  I  have  been  here 
this  hour,  and  Mr.  Templemore  is  not  coming." 
"  But  he  will  come,  and  Dora  will  come  down 
to  him  when  Eva  is  asleep — and  I  say  John 
would  not  like  it." 

Repeated  assertion  is  like  the  drop  of  water 
whose  ceaseless  splash  wears  out  the  stone 
beneath.  Mrs.  Logan  was  convinced,  and 
though  she  stayed  to  have  ampler  proof,  she 
did  not  need  it.  Still,  Mr.  Templemore  came 
not. 

"  I  wonder  where  he  is  ?  "  whispered  Mrs. 
Luan.  "  Go  out  in  the  garden  and  see  if  there 
be  a  light  in  his  study." 

Mistrust,  feigned  or  real,  held  Mrs.  Logan 
back. 

"  Mrs.  Luan,"  she  said,  "  if  ever  Mr.  Temple- 
more learns  through  you  that  I  was  here  to- 
night, I'll — I'll  make  you  repent  it  as  long  as 
I  live ! " 

And  she  did  not  stir. 

Mrs.  Luan  laughed  at  the  folly  of  the  woman 
who  thought  that  she  wanted  to  betray  her  to 
Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Then  I'll  go  and  see,"  she  said,  carelessly, 
and  as  if  to  go  were  not  what  she  wanted. 

She  went,  and  did  not  come  back.  At  first 
Mrs.  Logan  waited  patiently,  then  she  got  irri- 
tated and  angry ;  she  did  not  venture  to  cross 
the  school-room;  but  opening  the  French 
window,  she  entered  the  garden.  It  was  rain- 
ing fast,  but  Mrs.  Logan  did  not  mind  the  rain. 
She  looked  at  the  window  of  Mr.  Templemore's 


168 


DORA. 


study.  A  calm,  steady  light  was  burning  there, 
and  showed  her  his  bending  figure.  But  as  if 
an  enchanter's  summons  had  suddenly  dis- 
turbed him,  he  rose,  the  study  grew  dark,  then 
the  school-room  was  lit,  and  Florence  distinctly 
saw  Mr.  Templemore  through  the  muslin  cur- 
tains. 

*'  He's  calhng  Dora,"  said  Mrs.  Luan's  voice 
in  the  darkness.  "  Do  you  hear  him  ?  She'll 
come  ! — she'll  come !  " 

"And  even  as  she  spoke  Dora's  figure  was 
seen  by  these  two  ;  she  had  heard,  and,  to  her 
sorrow,  obeyed  the  call. 

"  Is  it  not  glorious  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Luan, 
stamping  in  her  glee,  "to  be  thought  a  fool 
and  an  idiot,  and  to  play  them  off  so  !  He's 
clever,  and  so  is  Dora,  and  yet  you  see  ! — you 
see ! " 

Florence  did  not  answer — she  could  not — 
she  felt  stupid  with  amazement  and  grief. 
She  had  still  doubted,  but  now  she  saw  it.  If 
she  not  love  Mr.  Templemore  with  romantic 
affection,  if  Doctor  Richard  would  have  left 
her  cold  and  unmoved,  if  she  required  Deenah, 
and  Les  Roches,  and  money,  and  its  luxuries, 
to  give  warmth  to  her  love,  still  that  love  ex- 
isted— not  deep,  not  disinterested,  but  real. 
That  love,  such  as  it  was,  now  stung  her  to 
take  such  revenge  as  the  present  opportunity 
gave  her. 

"  That  will  do,"  she  whispered,  "  let  us  go, 
now ;  lead  the  way,  and  miud  you  never  tell 
him." 

"  No,  no,"  said  ilrs.  Luan,  laughing.  "  Never 
fear,  Flo,  I  shall  never  tell." 

She  led  the  way  as  Mrs.  Logan  bade  her, 
and  whilst  she  turned  into  the  garden  path, 
Florence  abruptly  entered  the  house,  and  open- 
ing the  door  of  the  school-room,  burst  in  upon 
Dora  and  Mr.  Templemore.  Her  clothes  were 
dripping  Avith  rain,  her  face  was  pale  as  death, 
her  cyJs  sparkled  with  jealous  fury. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said,  with  a  short 
laugh.     "  I  am  very  rude,  I  know,  but  I  for- 


got something  here — a  handkerchief,  I  be- 
lieve— and  so  I  came  back  for  it.  So  sorry 
to  interrupt  you,  Mr.  Templemore — and  you, 
too,  Miss  Courtenay,  but  I  could  not  help  it, 
you  see." 

Amazement  kept  them  both  mute.  Her  im- 
cspected  appearance,  her  looks,  her  tones, 
were  both  menacing  and  mysterious. 

"  Florence,  what  is  this  ?  "  at  length  asked 
Mr.  Templemore,  going  up  to  her. 

Mrs.  Logan  laughed  in  his  face. 

"  Sorry  to  interrupt  your  teie-d-teie  with 
Miss  Courtenay,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  really 
could  not  help  it,  Mr.  Templemore — besides, 
it  was  raining  outside,  you  know." 

Mr.  Templemore  could  not  believe  his  ears 
or  his  eyes.  Was  this  the  gentle,  playful 
Florence,  this  pale  woman  whose  looks  of 
jealous  fury  were  bent  now  upon  him — ^now 
upon  Dora  ?  His  kitten  had  now  turned  into 
a  fierce  young  tigress  ;  and  even  in  the  confu- , 
sion  and  dismay  of  the  moment,  he  had  a  keen 
sense  of  horror  and  disgust  as  he  saw  the  ugly 
transformation.  Even  then  that  absence  of 
moral  beauty,  which  was  the  want  of  Mrs, 
Logan's  pretty  face,  though  habitual  good- 
humor  concealed  it,  was  visible  to  him ;  the 
low  brow,  though  so  fair,  the  sensual  mouth, 
though  so  lovely,  the  ungenerous  countenance 
that  could  look  so  sweet,  were  all  revealed  to 
him  in  one  moment,  and  they  filled  him  with 
mingled  anger  and  grief  There  was  resent- 
ment, there  was  a  sort  of  contempt,  there  was 
ill-subdued  scorn  in  his  voice  as  he  said  : 

"Florence,  this  is  too  much — this  is  too 
much  ! " 

"  So  I  think,"  replied  Mrs.  Logan,  nodding 
at  him — "  so  I  think,"  and  she  nodded  at 
Doya. 

On  seeing  Florence  enter — on  hearing  her 
first  words,  Dora  had  felt  stunned,  but  now  in- 
dignation roused  her.  She  went  up  to  Mrs. 
Logan,  and  in  a  low,  even  voice,  she  said : 

"  Mr.  Templemore   came  here   to  see  his  ■ 


MISS  COURTENAY'S  GRIEF. 


169 


eick  child ;  may  I  ask  what  you  conclude 
thence  ? " 

She  stood  before  Mrs.  Logan  pale  and  some- 
what imperious,  but  also  looking  as  much  be- 
yond the  reach  of  anything  that  could  sully 
her  honor  as  a  regal  lily  on  its  stem.  And  as 
she  spoke,  she  laid  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Logan's 
arm,  and  she  looked  down  in  her  face  with  a 
glance  so  proud  and  clear,  that  if  Florence 
had  not  been  very  blind  indeed,  she  must  have 
read  its  meaning — but  she  did  not. 

"  Conclude !  "  she  ejaculated  ;  "  dear  me, 
Miss  Courtenay,  I  conclude  nothing;  only  I 
do  hope  that  your  future  husband,  whoever  he 
may  be,  will  conclude  nothing  either  from  these 
midnight  meetings." 

On  hearing  this  insult  from  the  woman  who 
had  helped  to  send  her  brother  to  an  early 
grave,  Dora  diew  back  and  smiled  with  utter 
scom ;  but  the  smile  died  away  on  her  lips  as 
the  door  opened,  and  answering  Mr.  Teraple- 
more's  ring,  Jacques  and  Fanny  appeared  on 
the  threshold.  For  on  seeing  them  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan laughed  aloud  ;  now,  indeed,  she  held  her 
revenge ! 

"  Good-night,  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said  in 
French ;  "  I  am  sorry  I  interrupted  your  con- 
versation with  Miss  Courtenay ;  but  I  am 
going  away,  so  you  will  both  have  plenty  of 
time." 

She  laughed  scomfullj',  and  left  the  room  in 
a  glow  of  vindictive  triumph.  Jacques  and 
Fanny  had  both  heard  her  ;  she  had  had  her 
revenge.  But  she  started  back  as  she  crossed 
the  threshold,  for  she  found  Mrs.  Luan,  who 
had  evidently  been  listening,  and  perhaps,  too, 
waiting  for  her  outside  the  room. 

"  I  promised  to  see  you  home,"  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  grimly,  "and  I'll  keep  my  word,  I  will — 
I  will — are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  sharply  replied  Mrs.  Logan  ;  and 
going  up  to  Miss  Moore,  who  was  coming 
down  the  staircase,  having  left  the  drawmg- 
room  in  terror  of  the  storm  which  was  then 


rolling  above  Les  Roches,  she  said  bitterly, 
"  I  have  news  for  you,  Miss  Moore." 

Mrs.  Luan  saw  them  enter  the  dining-room 
together,  and  stood  awhile  looking  after  them  ; 
then  with  as  black  a  face  as  she  had  ever 
worn,  she. entered  the  school-room.  Jacques 
was  gone,  but  Fanny  stood  by  Dora,  who  had 
sat  down  on  a  chair  by  the  table,  pale  as  death, 
and  leaning  her  forehead  on  her  hand. 

"  Miss  Courtenay,"  said  Mr.  Templemore  in 
a  tone  of  much  emotion,  "  Mrs.  Logan  shall 
apologize  and  retract.  You  shall  have  the 
fullest  satisfaction !  " 

But  Dora  did  not  answer,  or  seem  to  hear 
him.  She  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed,  her  lips 
blanched. 

"  Disgraced  ! "  she  said  in  a  low  voice — 
"  insulted  and  disgraced  ! " 

"  On  my  word,  on  my  honor,  you  shall  not 
suffer ! "  he  insisted,  with  some  energy. 
"  There  is  no  atonement  you  can  suggest 
which  shall  not  be  made  to  you  for  this  !  " 

"Atonement!"  she  repeated;  "there  is 
none.  Oh !  Mr.  Templemore,  your  coming 
here  has  undone  me  !  " 

But  he  could  not  believe  it — he  would  not. 

"  Who  dare  suspect  you  ?  "  he  asked,  red- 
dening with  indignation ;  "  you  ! — you.  Miss 
Courtenay  ! — it  is  impossible  ! " 

She  did  not  answer — she  could  not  argue. 
She  was  stunned  with  a  blow  so  cruel  and  so 
unexpected.  She  felt  faint,  giddy,  and  power- 
less— her  head  sank  on  her  bosom,  her  arms 
fell  down  by  her  sides,  and  if  Mrs.  Luan  had 
not  supported  her  she  must  have  fallen. 

"  I  cannot  bear  it ! — I  cannot !  "  she  said, 
drearily.     "  Oh  !  my  God,  did  I  deserve  this  ?  " 

Her  despair  touched  Mr.  Templemore's  very 
heart.  Every  argument  he  could  .think  of  he 
used — every  regret  he  could  utter  he  now 
spoke.  But  for  once  he  was  powerless.  Dora 
did  not  even  hear  him. 

"  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said  at  length,  with 
some  vehemence,  "  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Logan 


170 


DOEA 


must  apologize.     She  has  not  left  the  house 
yet ;  I  will  see  her  at  ouce." 

"  Mrs.  Logan  is  gone,"  quickly  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  looking  rather  seared. 

"  Gone  in  this  storm  ? — she  who  is  so  mor- 
tally afraid  of  thunder  and  lightning  ?  Im- 
possible ! "' 

And  as  Mr.  Templemore  uttered  the  words, 
he  looked  up  sharply  at  Mrs.  Luan.  She  had 
spoken  with  a  vivacity  which  had  surprised 
him  ;  but  even  as  he  looked,  the  startled  mean- 
ing passed  from  her  face  ;  it  became,  as  ever, 
dull,  cold,  and  vacant.  "  I  suppose  all  this 
has  excited  her,"  he  thought ;  and  he  thought 
no  more,  but  left  the  school-room  at  once  in 
search  of  Mrs.  Logan.  Mrs.  Luan  followed 
him  with  a  furtive  look,  then,  turning  almost 
fiercely  on  Fanny,  she  said  : 

"  What  do  you  stay  for  ?  Go !  go  ! "  ■'■ 
She  spoke  so  imperatively,  that  Fanny 
obeyed  the  mandate  at  once,  and  went  down 
to  the  servants'  room  in  some  tremor,  inform- 
ing Jacques,  in  her  broken  French,  that  Miss 
Courtenay's  aunt  was  in  a  dreadful  way  about 
all  this. 

"  Well  she  may,"  sententiously  said  Jacques 
— "  well  she  may.  Mademoiselle  Fanny." 

Mrs.  Luan,  indeed,  was  rather  stricken  at 
the  success  of  her  plan — perhaps  that  success 
had  exceeded  her  expectations.  Dora  sat  as 
Mr.  Templemore  had  left  her,  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands,  trying  to  measure  the 
abyss  into  which  she  had  fallen.  But  her  eye 
shrank  from  these  dark  depths  of  shame  which 
seemed  to  lie  before  her.  If  she  could  have 
seen  an  issue — a  road  to  salvation — but  none 
appeared. 

Two  servants  had  heard  Mrs.  Logan's  in- 
sulting taunt.  Would  Mr.  Templemore  at- 
tempt to  bribe  them  into  silence  ? — could  he 
do  it? — was  it  not  too  late  by  this  ? — had  not 
.  the  story  already  been  told  in  the  kitchen  ? 
and  thence  would  it  not  spread  iu  eveSwiden- 
ing  circles,  until  it  encompassed  her  like  a 


sea  ?  He  had  promised  to  atone.  But  atone- 
ment was  not  in  his  power.  He  was  as  help- 
less as  she  was  ;  like  her,  he  might  stand  and 
look  on  at  the  disastrous  effect  a  few  words 
had  wrought ;  but  the  sluices  had  been  opened, 
and  by  no  mortal  power  could  the  waters  be 
called  back. 

"  Disgraced  1 "  muttered  Dora,  removing  her 
hands  from  her  pale,  distracted  face — "  dis- 
graced! and  forever.  Aunt,  aunt,  I  cannot 
bear  it ! — I  must  conquer  this  or  die  ! " 

"  Dora,"  said  her  aunt,  clinching  her  hands, 
and  stammering  from  the  agitation  with  which 
she  spoke,  "  if  Mr,  Templemore  does  not  do 
you  justice — if  he  does  not  marry  you,  I — I 
will  make  him  repent  it." 

When  our  own  mood  is  overwrought  and 
excited,  we  wonder  at  nothing.  Dora  heard 
her  aunt,  and  understood  her,  but  she  neither 
remonstrated  with  nor  minded  the  threat.  It 
sounded  like  mere  angry  raving,  and  did  not 
even  startle  her.  Later,  when  the  secret  of 
her  sad  story  was  laid  bare  to  her,  she  re- 
membered the  words  but  too  well.  The  only 
thought  they  now  suggested  was  the  desperate 
one — "Justice! — how  can  he  do  me  justice? 
I  am  undone  forever,  and  he  can  only  look  on 
and  see  it." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

The  sound  of  voices  guided  Mr.  Temple- 
more  to  the  dining-room,  and  told  him  he 
should  find  Florence  there.  But  though  he 
came  to  work  Dora's  justification,  he  also 
came  in  an  angry  and  indignant  mood.  He 
still  felt  both  amazed  and  exasperated  at  Mrs. 
Logan's  insulting  intrusion.  What  right  had 
she  to  come  thus  upon  him  in  the  most  private 
hours  of  his  life,  and  put  evil  construction  on 
his  most  innocent  actions  ?  A  wife  could  not 
do  more,  and  many  a  wife  would  be  too  proud 
to  do  as  much.  But  when  he  opened  the 
dining-room    door — when    he    saw    Florence 


HER  DISMISSAL   DEMANDED. 


171 


thrown  back  in  a  cliair,  weeping  passionately, 
and  Miss  Moore  bending  pityingly  over  her, 
bis  dark  face  relaxed  even  as  his  heart  relent- 
ed. She  was  unjust  and  cruel,  she  was  silly 
and  heartless,  but  she  was  still  the  woman 
whom  he  had  loved  a  year,  and  whom  he  was 
to  marry  in  a  few  weeks.  On  seeing  him,  she 
started  up,  and  her  eyes  flashed. 

"  Go  back  to  Miss  Courtenay  I"  she  said — 
"go  back!" 

"  You  persist  in  that  insult ! "  he  exclaimed, 
angrily.  "  Florence !  Florence  ! "  he  added, 
more  calmly,  "  do  not ! — think  of  Miss  Cour- 
tenay's  position,  and  do  not ! " 

"  You  think  of  her,  Mr.  Templemore — you 
think  of  her ! " 

"  And  why  should  I  not  think  of  her  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  much  indignation ;  "  why  not,  Mrs. 
Logan  ?  If  you  disgrace  her,  do  you  suifer 
for  it  in  the  world's  esteem  ?  Why,  more- 
over, should  I  not  think  of  a  lady  who  is 
under  my  roof  and  under  my  protection,  to 
whom  I  have  confided  my  only  child,  and  to 
whose  care  of  her  I  am  so  deeply  indebted  ?  " 

"  Then,  Mr.  Templemore,  I  may  as  well  tell 
you,"  replied  Mrs.  Logan,  stung  by  the  tone 
in  which  he  spoke  of  Dora,  "  that  if  I  consent 
to  marry  you  after  what  has  passed,  you  must 
give  up  Miss  Courtenay." 

"You  cannot  be  in  earnest." 

"  I  am  quite  in  earnest,  I  assure  you." 

She  spoke  with  a  pretty,  foolish  toss  of  her 

little  head,  which  allayed  Mr.  Templemore's 

/        ft 
auger,  not  because  he  felt  tempted  to  yield  to 

her,  but  because  it  reminded  him  that  she  was 

so  childish — namely,  so  silly. 

"  Florence,"  he  said,  gravely,  "  you  thus  ask 

me  to  acknowledge  to  you  what  I  must  ever 

deny,  for  it  is  not  true ;  and  worse  still,  to  join 

you  in  giving  the  last  blow  to  Miss  Courtenay's 

reputation  ;  whereas  it  is  you  who,  in  common 

justice,  must  retract  and  apologize;  and  she 

must  stay  in  Les  Roches  as  Eva's  governess — 

she  must,  if  it  were  only  for  her  justification." 


Mrs  Logan  laughed  ironically. 

"  You  must  think  me  foolish  indeed,"  she 
said,  nodding  at  Mr.  Templemore,  "if  you 
think  I  will  put  up  with  that.  No,  Mr  Tem- 
plemore, Miss  Courtenay  shall  leave  your  house 
to-morrow — to-morrow,  do  you  hear  ? — or  you 
have  seen  your  last  of  me  ! " 

He  looked  at  her  incredulous,  amazed,  and 
indignant. 

"  How  basely  you  must  think  of  me  ! "  he 
said,  in  gi'eat  scorn ;  "  why,  even  if  I  were  as 
guilty  as  you  think  me,  I  could  not  act  so 
without  dishonor — I  could  not  turn  out  of  my 
house  the  girl  whom  I  had  disgraced,  without 
addhig  a  second  betrayal  to  the  first.  Inno- 
cent or  guilty,  Miss  Courtenay  shall  stay  in 
Lea  Roches ! " 

"  Then  you  confess  it — you  prefer  her  to 
me  !■"  cried  Florence — "you  confess  it !  " 

"  I  prefer  justice  aud  honor  to  you,  as  I 
would  prefer  them  to  my  own  life,"  he  vehe- 
mently replied.  "  But,  Florence,"  he  added, 
more  calmly,  "  let  us  drop  this.  Once  for  all, 
beheve  me  when  I  tell  you  that  I  have  no 
feeling  save  regard  and  friendship  for  Miss 
Courtenay.  Once  for  all,  believe  me  when  I 
tell  you  that  she  is  a  proud  and  reserved  girl, 
incapable,  I  will  not  say  of  wrong,  but  of  the 
mingled  lightness  and  folly  you  so  gratuitous- 
ly lay  to  her  door." 

Mrs.  Logan  was  staggered.  But  the  frivo- 
lous and  the  weak  are  incapable  of  greatness 
under  any  of  its  many  aspects.  Ask  them  not 
for  strong  love,  for  generous  construction,  or 
pure,  simple  faith.  In  vain  Florence  had 
known  Dora  from  her  youth,  aud  Mr.  Temple- 
more for  the  last  year — her  standard  forjudg- 
ing them  was  herself,  and  this  was  neither 
rigid  nor  lofty.  If  she  had  been  a  poor  girl, 
she  could  have  flirted  with  a  rich  man  in  the 
hope  of  supplanting  another  woman,  aud  for 
the  mere  gratification  of  her  vanity ;  and  if 
she  had  been  a  rich  woman,  she  would  no 
more   have  scrupled   sacrificing   a   poor   girl 


172 


DORA. 


to  her  amusement,  than  Florence  Gale  had 
scrupled  sacrificing  Dora  Courtenay's  brother 
to  her  interest.  Nobleness  and  truth  were 
not  in  her,  and  she  could  not  conceive  them 
in  others. 

"  What  brought  Miss  Courtenay  down  to 
the  school-room  ?  "  she  asked,  mistrustfully. 

"  I  called  her." 

"And  what  took  you  there,  Mr.  Temple- 
more  ?  " 

"  I  went,  thmking  Eva  was  ill,"  he  gravely 
replied. 

"  And  what  made  you  think  Eva  was  ill  ?  " 
she  persisted.    "  I  suppose  she  sent  for  you  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore's  dark  eyes  flashed. 

"  Mrs.  Logan,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  ask  how 
and  why  you  came  to  Les  Roches  this  even- 
ing. I  suppose  I  have  faithless  servants — 
spies  on  my  privacy,  who  can  be  seduced 
from  the  duty  they  owe  me.  These  are  ques- 
tions I  scorn  to  put ;  but  I  ask  this,  will  you 
have  faith  in  me  ?  " 

"  Xot  if  Miss  Courtenay  stays,  Mr.  Temple- 
more." 

He  looked  troubled  and  much  moved. 

"  Florence,  I  never  knew  you  to  be  cruel 
and  relentless  ;  you  are  a  woman,  have  some 
feeling  for  another  woman — ^liave  some  feeling 
for  me,  and  do  not  lay  upon  me  such  an  alter- 
native." 

His  voice  was  tender  and  pleading,  but  Mrs. 
Logan  could  not,  or  would  not,  understand 
its  real  meaning.  She  only  felt  that  Dora 
vma  in  her  power  at  last,  and  she  would  show 
no  mercy. 

"Let  Miss  Courtenay  go,"  she  said.  "I 
ask  for  no  more." 

"  Then  you  are  resolved." 
"  Quite  resolved." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  in  grave 
and  silent  displeasure  ;  when  he  spoke,  it  was 
to  say : 

"  Be  it  eo ;  but  remember,  it  is  your  doin"', 
not  mine." 


"  Oh !  I  am  quite  willing  to  assume  the 
responsibility,"  cavalierly  replied  Mrs.  Logan. 

"  Remember  that  if  we  now  part  forever, 
it  is  you  who  break  your  pledge  to  me,  not  I 
who  violate  my  promise  to  you." 

He  bowed  gravely,  then  left  the  room  with- 
out adding  another  word. 

Mrs.  Logan  remained  stunned  at  the  conse- 
quences of  her  own  act.  To  the  last  moment 
she  had  thought  that  Mr.  Templemore  was 
yielding ;  to  the  last  moment  she  had  felt  con- 
vinced that  he  neither  dared  to  give  her  up, 
nor  had  the  power  to  do  so.  She  had  never 
imagined  that  he  would  thus  take  her  at  her 
word. 

"  Oh  !  Mrs.  Logan,  Mrs.  Logan  !  "  cried 
Miss  Moore,  with  uplifted  hands. 

"Don't  you  think  he  will  come  back?" 
asked  Florence,  looking  at  her  in  great  con- 
sternation. 

"No,"  replied  that  lady,  with  dismay  in 
her  face,  "  I  am  sure  he  will  not !  " 

Mrs.  Logan  looked  piteous.  The  first  vio- 
lence of  her  anger  was  spent,  and  a  sort  of 
repentance  was  entering  her  heart.  She  was 
not  sorry  that  she  had  insulted  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  and  wronged  Dora  ;  but  she  felt  deeply 
sorry  at  having  injured  Mrs.  Logan,  and  she 
was  inclined  to  repair  whatever  damage  that 
lady  miglit  have  sustained  in  her  worldly  and 
matrimonial  prospects. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?  "  she  asked,  wringing 
her  hands.  "Please  to  send  for  him,  Miss 
Moore." 

Miss  Moore  rang  at  once.  Jacques  answered 
the  bell,  and  went  for  Mr.  Templemore;  but 
the  owner  of  Les  Roches  was  not  to  be  found. 
Florence  scarcely  waited  for  the  man  to  leave 
the  room,  in  order  to  exclaim  that  "  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore did  it  on  purpose,  and  that  she  was 
perfectly  miserable." 

Miss  Moore  attempted  to  put  in  a  word, 
and  was  at  once  silenced. 

"  What  takes  him  out  at  this  hour,  and  in 


MRS.   LOGAN  SEEKS  THE   TRUTH. 


173 


this  weather  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Logan,  angrily. 
"  He  wants  to  show  me  it  is  all  over.  Well, 
let  him.  Miss  Moore — let  him !  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Logan,*it  is  not  all  over ; 
but  I  dare  say  Mr.  Templemore  is  angry. 
Only  depend  upon  it  you  were  mistaken.  If 
you  were  to  see  Miss  Courtenay,"  she  added, 
timidly,  "  you  might  come  to  an  understand- 
ing with  her." 

"  And  beg  her  pardon !  "  replied  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan, laughing  scornfully. 

"But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Logan,"  urged  Miss 
Moore,  "  you  really  must  be  mistaken  in  all 
this  ?  " 

Mrs.  Logan  turned  upon  her. 

"  Had  you  ever  heard  that  he  went  up  that 
staircase  to  see  Eva  ?  Xever  ;  you  told  me 
so.  Then  don't  you  see  it  was  kept  a  mystery 
on  purpose.  If  there  was  uo  harm  iu  it,  why 
did  not  the  whole  world  know  about  it,  Miss 
Moore — just  tell  me  that  ?  " 

She  spoke  so  angrily  that  Miss  Moore  did 
not  venture  to  answer.  Nevertheless,  some 
impression  had  been  produced  on  Mrs.  Lo- 
gan's mind,  for  she  stood  silent  and  sullen, 
brooding  over  her  case. 

"  I  wish  I  had  not  spoken  opposite  the 
servants,"  she  thought;  "that  is  why,  per- 
haps, he  won't  give  up  Dora.  She  would  never 
have  committed  such  a  false  step.  Not  she. 
She  is  too  clever  and  too  keen.  I  wonder  if 
I  could  find  out  the  truth  from  her.  Keen 
though  she  is,  she  never  could  hide  anything 
from  me.  If  I  have  wronged  her,  I  can  just 
kiss  her,  and  say  something  about  Paul ;  and 
if  she  has  wronged  me,  she  shall  quake  still 
further  for  her  fair  name,  and  feel  that  she  is 
at  my  mercy,  spite  all  her  cleverness  and  her 
grand  ways." 

"  I  shall  go  and  speak  to  Miss  Courtenay," 
she  said  shortly.  And  the  tone  in  which  she 
addressed  Miss  Moore,  implied,  "  Stay  where 
you  are." 

Miss  Moore  meekly  submitted,  whilst  Mrs. 


Logan,  wrapping  her  cloak  around  her,  and 
looking  as  defiant  as  an  injured  queen,  crossed 
the  hall,  and  entered  the  school-room,  where 
Dora  now  sat  alone  with  her  aunt.  But  her 
whole  aspect  changed  as  she  closed  the  door, 
and  Dora  looked  up  slowly.  Forestalling 
attack,  Mrs.  Logan  burst  into  tears.  They 
came  at  her  .command,  and  without  hypocrisy 
or  deceit,  she  wept  as  easily  as  children  weep 
and  quite  as  sincerely. 

"  Oh  1  Dora — ^Dora,"  she  sobbed,  "  how 
could  you  do  it  ? — how  could  you  ?  I  have 
been  engaged  to  Mr.  Templemore  so  long — 
how  could  you  do  it  ?  " 

Dora  looked  at  her  very  coldly ;  but  no 
word  of  justification  or  denial  passed  her  lips. 

"  I  know  I  am  hasty  and  foolish,"  sobbed 
Mrs.  Logan,  "  and  that  even  though  I  saw  you 
both  with  my  own  eyes  I  should  not  have  said 
it;  but,  Dora,  say  there  was  do  harm  in  it, 
and  I  will  believe  you — only  what  could  take 
him  to  the  school-room  at  that  hour  ?  " 

Dora's  lip  curled  with  scorn,  but  she  was 
silent. 

"For  your  own  sake  you  ought  to  tell,"  said 
Mrs.  Logan  a  little  angrily  ;  "  how  do  you  ex- 
pect me  to  justify  you,  and  say  it  was  all  a 
mistake,  if  I  know  nothing  ?  " 

"  My  good  name  is  not  in  your  power,"  re- 
plied Dora,  with  a  swelling  heart.  "  I  am  not 
at  your  mercy,  Mrs.  Logan  !  " 

"  Then  it  is  true  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Logan,  with 
unconquerable  jealousy  ;  "  then  you  did  mean 
to  flirt  with  him,  and  perhaps  to  supplant 
me!" 

Dora  turned  red  and  pale. 

"  Mrs.  Logan,  may  I  ask  if  you  came  here 
to  say  this  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  came  to  know  the  truth,  and  I  will  know 
it !  "  desperately  cried  Mrs.  Logan.  "  Dora, 
tell  me,  you  must ;  I  must  know  how  far  mat- 
ters have  gone  between  you  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more. Tell  me — tell  me!.  You  are  to  marry 
John,  I  know;  tell  me  the  truth,  and  he  shall 


174 


DOEA. 


Qever  know  anTthing — I'll  deny  all  to  him ; 
but  tell  me,  and  promise  not  to  see  Mr.  Temple- 
more  any  mox'e.  Oh  !  Dora,  I  am  wretched, 
and  I  must  be  happy  again  !  " 

"Forgive  us  our  trespasses  as  Tve  forgive 
them  that  trespass  against  us." 

A  sublime  precept,  but  hard — very  hard  to 
put  in  practice.  Dora  could  not  forgive  that 
light,  frivolous  creature,  who  went  through 
life  taking  all  its  sweetness,  and  leaving  all  its 
bitterness  to  others  ;  who,  after  helping  to 
break  her  brother's  heart,  after  doing  all  she 
could  to  rob  her  of  fair  name,  now  asked 
her  victim  to  help  her  back  to  happiness ! 
And  what  was  Mrs.  Logan's  happiness  to  Dora 
Courtenay  ?  Must  she  not  leave  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  house  a  penniless  and,  though  she  had 
denied  it,  a  disgraced  girl  ?  And  it  was  the 
woman  who  had  done  this — Mr.  Templemore's 
future  wife — who  dared  to  plead  her  happiness 
as  an  argument ! 

She  rose  and  looked  at  her  in  silent  indigna- 
tion. 

"  Tell  you  !  "  she  said  at  length — "  tell  you 
what,  Mrs.  Logan?  That  I  am  not  base — 
that  I  am  not  shameless  !  You  ask  me  to  tell 
you  that?  Have  you,  then,  forgotten  the 
past  ?  Have  you  forgotten  Paul  Courtenay  ? 
and  is  it  his  sister  whom  of  all  women  you 
dare  to  treat  thus  ?  If  to  say  a  word  to  you 
could  right  me  in  the  face  of  all,  I  would  not 
utter  that  word.  Go  to  Mr.  Templemore  and 
put  what  questions  you  please.  He  perhaps 
owes  you  an  answer ;  I  do  not,  and  will  give 
you  none." 

"  Then  it  is  not  true  that  Eva  was  ill  ?  Per- 
haps you  were  ill.  Miss  Courtenay ! "  added 
Mrs.  Logan,  stung  at  Dora's  cold,  hp.ughty 
face. 

"Since  you  only  came  to  insult  me,  I  shall 
withdraw,"  quietly  said  Dora ;  and  she  left  the 
room  as  she  spoke. 

Mrs.  Luan,  who  had  been  silent  till  then 
now  went  up  to  Mrs.  Logan,  and  taking  her  by 


both  wrists,  she  looked  at  her  with  sparkling, 
angry  eyes. 

"  How  dare  you  spea!"  opposite  the  ser- 
vants ? — how  dare  you  ! "  she  asked,  and  open- 
ing the  door,  she  dragged  her  out  of  the  room 
into  the  hall  with  ruthless  force.  Florence, 
paralyzed  for  fear,  coidd  neither  scream  nor 
speak.  "  How  dare  you  speak  opposite  the 
servants  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Luan, 

The  light  in  the  hall  shone  on  her  angry 
face.    Florence  shut  her  eyes  not  to  see  it. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  gasped ;  "  you  hurt  me — 
let  me  go  !  " 

"  Hurt  you !  "  said  Mrs.  Luan,  looking  much 
incensed  ;  "  did  you  dare  to  say  that  I  hurt 
you  ? — what  next,  eh  ?  " 

Mrs.  Logan  opened  her  eyes,  then  shut 
them  again,  not  to  see  that  wrathful  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Let  me  go  !  "  she  said — "  let  me  go  ! " 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,"  began  Mrs.  Luan, 
tightening  her  hold  of  her  victim,  "  I  know 
what  you  mean ;  but  if  you  dare  to  say  it,  I'll 
kill  you !     I  will — I  will !  "  she  repeated. 

But  suddenly  her  hold  relaxed.  Mrs.  Logan 
looked  up  ;  she  was  free,  and  Mrs.  Luan  stood 
two  paces  from  her  humming  a  tune.  Miss 
Moore's  appearance  at  the  end  of  the  hall  had 
wrought  that  marvel.  Mrs.  Logan  rushed  up 
and  clung  to  her. 

"  Miss  Moore ! "  she  gasped,  "  the  storm  is 
over ;  and  Mrs.  Luan — " 

"  Shall  I  go  home  with  you  ?  "  kindly  asked 
Mrs.  Luan,  going  up  to  her  ;  "  I  am  not  afraid 
of  the  storm.  Let  me  go  with  you,  Mrs. 
Logan." 

"  Xo,  no !  "  replied  Florence,  with  a  shudder 
of  fear  ;  but  not  daring  to  continue  the  accu- 
sation she  had  begun,  she  resumed  hurriedly, 
"  the  storm  is  over,  and  I  really  wish  to  go ; 
will  you  send  Jacques — any  one  with  me.  Miss 
Moore  ?  " 

"  I  sliall  go  and  call  him,"  said  Miss  Moore, 
attempting  to  move,  but  Florence  held  her  so 


DORA  AXD   HER  MOTHER. 


175 


tightly  that  she  could  not  stir.  Seeing  Miss 
Moore's  amazed  look,  and  Mrs.  Luan's  grim 
smile  of  triumph,  she  recovered  composure 
enougli  to  say : 

"  Yes,  pray  call  Jacques — and  let  me  go 
with  you — I  cannot  bear  being  alone." 

"  I'll  stay  with  you,"  again  kindly  said  Mrs. 
Luan. 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  Florence.  "  Here  is 
Jacques,  I  believe.  Good-night,  Miss  Moore — 
good-night." 

She  was  gone  in  a  moment.  Miss  Moore 
looked  at  Mrs.  Luan. 

"Mrs.  Luan,"  she  said,  "can  you  make  out 
all  this  ?  " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  cunning,  and  tapped  her 
forehead  mysteriously. 

"  My  goodness  ! "  cried  Miss  Moore  ;  "  but 
that  is  impossible ! " 

"  Why  so  ?  "  coolly  asked  Mrs.  Luan.  "  It's 
in  the  family,  you  know.  Did  you  never  see 
it?" 

"  Never." 

"  I  did — long  ago — oh !  so  long  ago !  I 
knew  her  when  she  was  a  child,  you  know." 

And  she  walked  away,  leaving  Miss  Moore 
confounded  at  so  strange  an  allegation,  and  to 
which,  however,  the  violent  and  unreasonable 
conduct  of  Florence  gave  a  sort  of  likelihood. 
Mrs.  Luan  looked  very  calm  till  she  reached 
her  room  ;  but  when  she  was  in  it,  when  she 
heard  the  iron  gates  of  Les  Roches  close  on 
Mrs.  Logan,  she  laughed  exultingly.  How 
well  she  had  done  it,  and  how  that  poor,  fool- 
ish gull  had  taken  it  all  in ! 

"  She  will  not  come  back  to  Les  Roches," 
thought  Mrs.  Luan,  nodding  in  her  triumph, 
*'  not  she !  And  so  she  thought  I  was  mad  ! — 
and  Miss  Moore  thinks  she  is  mad  !  Oh,  dear ! 
oh,  dear !  to  think  these  women  should  be  so 
foohsh!" 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  sitting  alone  in  the 
dining-room  the  next  morning,  with  a  pensive 
and  melancholy  look,  when  Dora  entered  it. 
Not  one,  so  far  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  could  learn, 
had  taken  any  breakfast  that  morning.  She 
could  not  understand  it,  and  at  once  applied 
to  her  daughter  for  information. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Dora  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Miss  Moore  has  a  headache,  says  Fanny ; 
Mr.  Templemore  is  out,  says  Jacques ;  Mrs. 
Luan  has  locked  herself  in  her  room.  No  one' 
seems  to  want  to  eat  to-day  !  " 

"  Have  you  had  any  breakfast,  mamma  ?  " 
asked  Dora,  wistfully. 

"  I  took  a  cup  of  tea ;  but  I  felt  so  lonely 
that  I  took  no  more." 

Dora  laid  her  hand  on  Mrs.  Courteuay's 
shoulder,  and  looked  down  sadly  in  her 
face. 

"  I  let  you  sleep  last  night,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  must  tell  you  this  morning.  We  must  leave 
Les  Roches.  I  have  already  seen  Madame 
Bertrand,  and  settled  every  thing  for  our  re- 
turn to  her ;  we  go  to-day — ^nay,  at  once.  Mr. 
Templemore  is  out,  and  all  can  be  over  before 
he  returns." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  stared  in  mute  amazement, 
whilst  calmly,  almost  coldly,  Dora  told  her 
what  had  happened.  At  first  Mrs.  Courtenay 
seemed  unable  to  understand  her  daughter ; 
but  suddenly  the  case,  in  all  its  bearings,  was 
made  plain  to  her. 

"  Dora,"  she  exclaimed,  rising  and  looking 
rigid,  "did  you  say  she  insulted  you  opposite 
the  servants  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  in  French,  lest  Jacques  should 
not  understand.  Oh  !  pray  lot  us  make  haste 
and  leave  this  house ! — pray  do !  " 

But  so  prompt  a  resolve  was  not  in  Mrs. 
Courteuay's  power.  Leave  Les  Roches  and  its 
comforts !  Leave  the  happj-,  easy  life,  for  the 
old  life  of  makeshifts  and  poverty,  and  leave 


17G 


DORA. 


it  with  the  additional  burden  of  disgrace  !  It 
was  too  hard  a  fate  !     It  could  not  be  ! 

"  But,  Dora,"  she  argued,  "  what  if  Mrs. 
Logan  saw  you  and  Mr.  Templemore  in  the 
school-room  ?  You  were  not  alone  with 
him?" 

"  Ye3,  I  was,"  replied  her  daughter.  "  Aunt 
and  I  sat  up  with  Eva,  who  was  flushed  and  ex- 
cited. Aunt  went  for  Mr.  Templemore,  it 
seems  ;  but  I  was  alone  when  he  came." 

"  Then  it  is  all  wrong — all  wrong  !  "  moaned 
Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  and  I  do  not  know  what  we 
shall  do,  Dora !  I  thought  you  would  marry 
him,  and  now  it  ends  so  dreadfully — so  very 
dreadfully ! " 

Dora  stood  near  the  dining-room  window. 
She  leaned  her  throbbing  forehead  against  the 
cold  glass.  Marry  him  ! — yes,  long  ago  she 
too  had  indulged  in  the  folly  of  that  dream. 
Marry  him  ! — and  she  must  leave  his  house  dis- 
graced, and  the  woman  who  wrought  her  ruia 
would  marry  him  in  three  weeks.  Oh !  it  was 
very  hard,  and  how  cruel  all  this  lingering 
seemed  to  her  now  !  But  it  did  not  last — it 
could  not.  Mrs.  Courteuay  indulged  in  a  few 
more  moans  and  ejaculations ;  then  anger  and 
pride  suddenly  taking  the  place  of  grief,  she 
informed  her  daughter  that  Mr.  Templemore's 
conduct  was  shameful — shameful !— and  that 
tiey  must  not  stay  another  minute  in  his  house. 

"  I  am  only  sorry,"  continued  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay, looking  dignified,  "  that  I  took  that  cup 
of  tea.  If  I  had  known  what  I  know  now,  I 
would  have  died  first ;  and  as  we  cannot  pos- 
sibly stay  to  luncheon,  I  shall  get  ready  at 
once." 

Dora,  who  had  spent  part  of  the  night  in 
packing,  went  up  and  helped  her  mother. 
Everything  was  soon  ready.  Mrs.  Luan  came 
in  and  stared  at  her  in  sullen  silence.  She  did 
indeed  attempt  to  remonstrate  once,  but  Dora, 
rising  from  lier  stooping  posture,  looked  up  at 
her,  and  seeing  that  her  mother  was  not  in  the 
room,  said,  gravely : 


"  Aunt,  who  did  this  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  fool  to  leave  the  house,"  sulkily 
answered  Mrs.  Luan ;  but  she  said  no  more, 
and  after  a  whOe  walked  back  to  her  own 
room. 

WTien  all  was  ready,  Dora  went  to  Eva's 
room.  The  child  was  still  fast  asleep.  She 
bent  over  her,  but  did  not  dare  to  kiss  her,  lest 
she  should  waken. 

"  Oh !  Eva,  Eva,"  she  thought,  with  her  eyes 
full  of  tears,'"  is  it  because  you  cost  me  so  dear 
that  it  seems  so  hard  to  leave  you  ?  " 

"  Dora,"  said  her  mother's  voice  outside. 

"  I  am  going,"  and  she  went. 

When  events  have  reached  a  certain  crisis, 
they  speed  as  quickly  as  a  stone  rolling  down- 
hill. Later  in  the  day,  when  she  thought  over 
all  this,  it  seemed  to  Dora  that  some  whirlwind 
had  swept  her  away  from  Mr.  Templemore's 
house.  She  could  scarcely  believe  everything 
was  over  when  she  entered  those  rooms  which 
she  had  left  six  months  before,  gay  and  hope- 
ful. She  heeded  neither  her  mother's  laments, 
nor  her  aunt's  angry  ejaculations  at  the  course 
events  had  taken  ;  she  went  to  her  room,  and 
sitting  down  there,  tried  again  to  look  her 
future  in  the  face.  Alas !  again  she  found 
that  she  could  not. 

There  is  something  intolerable  to  the  proud 
in  the  mere  thought  of  disgrace.  Life,  Dora 
felt,  was  a  burden  now,  and  death  would  be  a 
sort  of  relief.  She  had  that  fomfort,  though 
she  could  not  feel  it  in  her  dark  hour,  that 
death  would  close  her  story,  and  end  it  in  for- 
getfulness.  But  she  did  not  think  of  that.  I 
wonder,  indeed,  if  we  really  ever  appreciate 
the  blessing  of  obscurity  ?  I  wonder  if  we  re- 
alize the  pangs  of  a  Mary  Stuart  or  a  Marie 
Antoinette  at  her  fatal  celebrity  ?  That  black 
shadow,  which  time  can  never  remove  from 
the  name  of  either,  and  of  which  both,  inno- 
cent or  guilty,  must  have  been  conscious,  sure- 
ly added  bitterness  to  the  prison,  and  gave  a 
keener  pang  to  the  scaffold.     Who  will  dare  to 


THEY  LEAVE   LES   ROCHES. 


177 


swear  that  the  daughter  of  Maria  Theresa  was 
stainless  in  the  matter  of  the  necklace,  or  that 
the  Scottish  queen  did  not  betray  and  murder 
her  husband  ?  Historians  are  not  agreed  yet — 
what  can  the  vulgar  do  ?  Who  shall  search 
up  evidence  for  or  against  either  lady,  weigh  it 
carefully,  and  ascertain  the  value  of  documents, 
forged  or  real  ?  The  task  would  take  a  life- 
time, and  the  world  has  scarce  an  hour  to  give. 
The  present  and  the  future  are  arrayed  against 
the  past,  and  in  the  broad  noonday  of  one,  and 
the  coming  dawn  of  the  other,  we  forget  that 
long  sad  night,  which  with  every  day  grows 
deeper  and  longer,  and  in  which  the  illustrious 
dead  lie  sleeping.  Oh  !  if  we  could  hear  it 
through  the  tumult  of  past  generations,  surely 
an  appeal,  piteous  and  despairing,  is  crying  to 
us  from  the  Temple  or  Fotheringay  for  justice 
and  belief.  "  Have  faith  in  me,"  it  says  ;  "  do 
not  believe  that  I  could  be  so  guilty.  Eeckon 
my  sorrows,  look  at  their  tragic  close,  and  ab- 
solve me  ! "  Alas !  we  cannot.  We  are  per- 
plexed, like  Othello,  and  no  Emilia  raises  her 
indignant  voice  to  convince  us.  We  go  on 
speculating,  wondering,  doubting — now  lean- 
ing to  that  side,  now  to  this,  until  we  grow 
weary,  and  turn  our  vexed  minds  to  more  con- 
genial themes. 

As  wfe  deal  with  them,  and  others  like  them, 
so  the  world  deals  with  us  when  appearances 
condemn  us,  and  this  a  bitter  intuition  told 
Dora.  Oh  !  if  she  had  thought  that  the  world 
would  believe' her  !  But  she  did  not.  She  had 
not  made  the  attempt,  and  she  already  shrank 
from  it  disheartened.  She  saw  not  one  rem- 
edy to  her  evil.  Her  condemnation  was  life- 
long, and  the  most  she  could  hope  for  was 
that,  once  Ufe  was  over,  the  world  might  for- 
get her.  Sad,  bitter  comfort  was  this  !  For, 
after  all,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  royal  ladies  we 
have  just  mentioned  would  have  exchanged 
their  dolorous  renown  for  a  cold  oblivion. 
They  might  have  thought  it  better  to  bo  re- 
membered, even  in  doubt  and  scorn,  than, 
13 


after  filling  the  world  with  their  name  and 
their  sorrows,  to  be  utterly  forgotten. 

"And  there  is  no  hope  for  me — none! — 
none ! "  thouo^t  Dora,  forgetting  that  in  the 
most  desperate  cases  there  is  always  hope. 
"  Mrs.  Logan  will  go  on  asserting  that  I  am 
guilty,  and  no  one  will  believe  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  denial.  To  stay  in  his  house  would 
have  condemned  me,  and  to  leave  it  condemns 
me — there  is  no  hope !  At  every  turn  of  my 
life  that  slander  will  meet  me ! " 

Mr.  Templemore,  too,  was  hopeless,  for  he 
felt  powerless.  He  stayed  out  two  hours  and 
more  that  morning,  vainly  seeking  a  remedy 
and  finding  none — none,  at  least,  that  his  own 
unaided  will  could  compass.  To  Florence  he 
woul^l  appeal  no  more.  His  resentment  against 
her  was  too  strong  and  too  deep.  He  was 
wronged  in  his  love,  and  wounded  in  his  pride 
and  honor;  he  closed  his  heart  upon  her  in 
anger,  and  resolved  to  abide  by  the  sentence 
she  had  passed  upon  him.  But  if  Mrs.  Logan 
would  not  retract,  would  Miss  Courtenay  be 
patient  ?  He  doubted  it,  and  that  he  must  not 
hope  for  it  he  learned  on  his  return.  He  had 
scarcely  crossed  the  gates  of  Les  Roches  when 
he  was  overtaken  by  Miss  Moore,  who  was  also 
coming  in. 

"  It  is  all  right,"  she  said,  eagerly — "  all 
right,  Mr.  Templemore." 

"  All  right  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Oh !  yes,  I  have  just  seen  Mrs.  Logan,  and 
on  learning  that  Miss  Courtenay  was  gone,  she 
relented  quite." 

Mr.  Templemore  stood  still,  and  looked 
black  as  night.  "Miss  Courtenay  is  gone!" 
he  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  she  would  go  with  her  mother  and 
aunt.  I  did  all  I  coul  1  to  keep  her,  of  course, 
but  she  would  go.  And  if  it  were  not  that 
poor  Eva  is  crying  her  eyes  out,  and  Fido 
whining  so  dreadfully,  I  should  say  it  is  all 
for  the  best;  for,  of  course,  since  that  was  all 
Mrs.  Logan  wanted — " 


178 


DORA. 


"  Mrs.  Logan  is  not  the  mistress  of  this 
house  yet,"  angrily  ioterrupted  Mr.  Temple- 
more.  "She  may  have  succeeded  in  driving 
Miss  Courtenay  out  of  it  by  the^grossest  insult 
one  woman  can  inflict  on  another,  but  there 
bet  triumph  ends.  Miss  Moore  ! " 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  sorry — very  sorry,"  said 
Miss  Moore,  rather  crestfallen. 

"  Is  she  ?  Then  let  her  prove  it.  Let  her 
apologize  and  retract — but  she  will  do  neither. 
When  she  came  to  this  house  last  night — and 
what  brought  her?— she  came  resolved  to  ruin 
Miss  Courtenay.  How  did  she  come  in? — 
who  let  her  in  ?  Some  servant  whom  she  had 
bribed.  Be  it  so.  I  scorn  the  means  and  the 
act  equally ! " 

"  I  tried  to  find  it  out,"  candidly  said  Miss 
Moore,  "  but  she  always  put  me  off.  She 
seemed  afraid  to  tell." 

"  Xot  afraid,  but  ashamed,"  replied  3Ir. 
Templemorc,  with  a  stern  smile ;  "  and  so  she 
well  might  be.  That  act  alone  would  divide 
us.  Did  Miss  Courtenay  leave  no  message  for 
me?" 

"  There  is  a  letter  in  your  study.  But,  in- 
deed, Mr.  Templemore,  poor  Mrs.  Logan  is  to 
be  pitied.     I  am  sure  she  is  heart-broken." 

Mr.  Templemore  was  silent  awhile.  Love 
felt  cold  and  dead ;  but  he  was  to  have  married 
Florence  in  three  weeks,  and  he  could  not  for- 
get that.  He  was  free  in  honor,  but  still  the 
tie  which  had  been  so  strong  the  day  before 
was  not  quite  broken. 

"  I  shall  write  to  her,"  he  said  aloud. 

"  Perhaps,  if  you  were  to  see  her,"  suggested 
Miss  Moore.  "  You  know  how  impulsive  dear 
Florence  is.  Suppose  she  gets  angry  again — 
thinking  a  letter  too  cold— and  writes  a  hasty 
reply,  meaning  the  contrary  all  the  time  ?  Then 
it  would  be  all  wrong  again,  you  see." 

But  Mr.  Ttfmplemorc  looked  as  if  he  could 
bear  the  fate  thus  held  forth  for  his  admoni- 
tion. 

"  I  shall  write  to  her,"  he  said  again.     And 


he  went  to  his  study  at  once,  as  if  resolved 
not  to  argue  the  case  further. 

Dora's  letter  was  brief,  such  a  letter  as  Mr. 
Templemore  expected.  He  read  it  twice  over, 
then  he  sat  down  and  wrote,  not  one  letter, 
but  two.  He  addressed  Dora  first.  She  had 
asked  of  him  to  make  no  attempt  to  see  her ; 
and  severe  and  unjustifiable  though  he  con- 
sidered that  request,  he  remembered  that  she 
had  been  cruelly  wronged,  and  he  would  not 
violate  it.  But  every  argument  he  could  think 
of  to  make  her  alter  her  resolve  he  used,  and 
he  concluded  v.'ith  a  prayer. 

"  Do  not  compel  me  to  feel,"  he  said,  "  that 
the  saddest  day  in  your  life  was  that  on  which 
you  met  Doctor  Richard  in  Monsieur  Merand's 
shop  ! " 

"  And  now,"  he  thought,  when  this  letter 
lay  closed  and  sealed  before  him,  "  I  must 
write  to  Florence." 

There  had  been  a  time  when  the  task  was 
not  an  effort ;  silly  though  his  pretty  mistress 
was,  he  had  once  found  it  delightful  to  lay  the 
fairest  flowers  of  his  fancy  at  her  little  feet. 
But  now  that  time  was  over,  and  vrith  a  sad 
and  heavy  heart  Mr.  Templemore  felt  it  would 
never  return.  No,  never  again  would  she  be 
dear  as  she  had  been.  Pity  and  pride,  no.t 
love,  made  him  relent  tow^ard  her.  No 
woman  to  whom  he  had  been  bound  so  closely 
should  tax  him  with  obstinate  and  ungener- 
ous resentment ;  but  forgiveness  is  not  afifec- 
tion,  and  there  was  secret  bitterness  in  Mr. 
Templemore's  heart  as,  taking  up  the  pen  he 
had  laid  down  on  finishin"  his  letter  to  Dora, 
he  addressed  Mrs.  Logan.  He  wrote  no  re- 
proaches, on  his  wrongs  ho  was  silent ;  but 
he  spoke  of  Dora's,  calmly,  dispassionately, 
and  like  one  convinced  of  Mrs.  Logan's  regret 
for  what  had  passed,  and  of  her  wish  to  repair 
the  evil  she  had  wrought.  He  did  not  ask  her 
to  do  this,  he  left  her  free ;  but  he  implied 
very  plainly — that  on  these  terms  alone  was 
perfect  reconciliation  possible. 


THE   T^YO   LETTERS. 


179 


When  this  task  was  accomplished  —  and 
how  bitter  and  painM  it  had  been,  Jlrs.  Lo- 
gan never  knew — Mr.  Templemore,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief,  went  to  seek  Eva  in  the  school- 
room. He  found  the  child  half  ill  with  a  grief 
he  could  not  remove.  He  could  take  her  on 
his  knee,  caress  her,  and  wipe  away  her  tears, 
but  he  could  not  promise  that  Dora  should 
return.  His  fate  was  not  in  his  own  hands. 
A  child's  perverse  jealousy,  a  silly  woman's 
folly,  had  laid  his  life  waste  for  the  time  be- 
ing ;  ruined  every  hope,  every  plan,  and  left 
nothing  but  sorrow  behind  them.  But,  alas  ! 
for  Mrs.  Logan,  he  felt  very  lenient  toward 
the  culprit  who  sat  on  his  knee,  clasped  in 
his  embrace,  with  her  head  on  his  shoulder, 
and  very  severe  toward  the  other  sinner,  who 
now  read  his  letter  with  a  flushed  face  and  a 
quivering  lip. 

He  felt  severe,  perhaps,  because  in  that 
room  he  could  not  help  thinking  so  much  of 
Dora.  Her  vacant  chair,  her  books,  the  hand- 
kerchief she  was  embroidering,  and  which  she 
had  forgotten  on  the  table,  were  mute  appeals 
that  roused  Mr.  Templemore's  indignation 
anew.  He  remembered  this  bright  girl  at 
the  Musee;  he  remembered  her  looking  as 
radiant  and  as  joyous  as  sunshine  in  her  poor 
home ;  and  thinking  of  the  pale  face  he  had 
seen  last  night,  of  the  tears  he  could  imagine, 
of  the  humiliation  and  shame  that  were  her 
lot  now,  and  of  his  powerlessness  to  do  her 
justice,  he  could  scarcely  restrain  his  mingled 
grief  and  anger. 

"  And  when  will  Cousin  Dora  come  back '? " 
plaintively  asked  Eva. 

"Heaven  knows,  not  I,"  he  bitterly  an- 
swered. "  I,  have  done  my  best,  Eva,  and 
man  can  So  no  more." 

How  that  best  fared,  Mr.  Templemore 
learned  the  same  evening,  when  the  post 
brought  him  two  letters.  He  was  sitting  with 
Eva  in  the  school-room,  hearing  her  through 
her  French  lesson  when  thev  came. 


"  Put  them  there,"  said  Mr.  Templemore  to 
Jacques. 

They  were  laid  on  the  table  before  him, 
these  two  letters  in  delicate  female  hands, 
which  held  his  fate  in  their  satin  folds.  He 
looked  at  them  a  little  moodily  as  the  child 
read  on,  about  Eucharis  and  Telemachus,  and 
the  grief  of  Calypso  at  the  flight  of  Ulysses. 

"  What  has  placed  me  at  the  mercy  of  these 
two  women'?"  he  thought,  with  a  sort  of 
angry  wonder.  "Why  should  the  folly  of 
the  one  and  the  pride  of  the  other  make  a 
slave  of  me  ?" 

"  Did  I  not  read  well  ?  "  asked  Eva,  shut- 
ting the  book,  and  looking  robbed  of  her 
meed  of  praise,  "  Cousin  Dora  says  I  read 
very  well." 

"  So  you  do — go  and  play  with  Fanny  now." 

Eva  went,  and  whilst  she  and  Fanny  played 
at  hide-and-seek  in  front  of  the  school-room, 
Mr.  Templemore  took  up  Mrs.  Logan's  letter 
and  broke  the  seal.  It  was  the  shortest 
epistle  he  had  ever  received  from  that  lady, 
for  it  did  not  extend  beyond  the  direction  on 
the  envelope  in  which  she  returned  his  own 
letter  unanswered.  Mr.  Templemore  colored 
deeply,  then  turned  rather  pale ;  but  he  lit  a 
match  and  burned  both  letter  and  envelope 
at  once  on  the  hearth.  He  looked  at  the  shriv- « 
elled  scroll  in  mingled  scorn  and  wonder. 
"  And  so  that  is  the  end,"  he  thought ;  "  that 
is  the  end !  If  I  would  only  let  her  ruin  Miss 
Courtenay  utterly,  she  would  forgive  my  sup- 
posed infidelity ;  but  I  would  not,  and  she 
finds  it  easier  to  give  me  up  than  to  renounce 
her  vengeance.  The  burden  of  love  in  that 
scale  was  so  light,  that  it  will  not;  stand  a 
feather's  weight  in  the  other.  Bo  it  so,  and 
let  Mrs.  Logan  abide  by  the  fiite  she  has 
chosen."  He  felt  so  calm,  that  he  could  not 
help  wondering  at  himself;  but  it  was  so. 
He  could  think  of  this  final  parting  between 
himself  and  Florence  as  if  tliey  had  been  two 
strangers,  and  look  on  it  as  impartially.     Yet, 


180 


DORA. 


jold  thougb  be  was,  something  he  felt,  for  he 
lOD"-  forgoi  Dora's  letter.  His  look  falling  on 
it  by  chance,  suddenly  reminded  him  of  its 
existence.  It  was  a  plain  and  brief  denial. 
It  was  free  from  complaint  of  wrong,  it  spoke 
no  reproach,  but  it  uttered  a  cold  and  inexora- 
ble "  No  "  to  all  Mr.  Templemore's  offers  and 
entreaties. 

"  A  proud  woman  ! — a  very  proud  woman !  " 
thought  Mr.  Templemore ;  "  but  she  too  must 
abide  by  the  fate  she  has  chosen." 

When  Eva,  tired  with  play,  and  still  dole- 
ful at  Cousin  Dora's  loss,  came  in  to  her 
father,  she  found  another  letter  shrivelling  up 
into  black  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

"  When  is  Cousin  Dora  coming  back  ?  "  she 
asked,  plaintively. 

Before  Mr.  Templemore  could  answer,  a 
little  tremulous  whine  from  the  garden  pro- 
claimed that  Fido  joined  in  the  question. 

"  You  must  both  do  without  Cousin  Dora," 
answered  Mr.  Templemore,  almost  impatiently, 
and  taking  his  hat  he  walked  out.  It  was 
almost  night,  and  Mr.  Templemore  went  down 
the  road  to  Rouen,  with  slow  and  irresolute 
«teps.  He  looked  at  Mrs.  Logan's  villa  as  he 
passed  by  it;  the  shutters  were  shut — Mrs. 
Logan  was  gone.  That  chapter  in  his  life 
,was  ended,  "Be  it  so,"  he  thought  defiant- 
ly ;  "  it  is  her  doing — not  mine."  And  he  went 
on.  He  entered  the  city,  he  went  to  Monsieur 
Merand's  shop,  and  bought  an  old  .  enamel 
from  the  dealer,  but  with  so  stern  and  forbid- 
ding a  look  did  he  drive  his  bargain,  that  it 
was  only  when  he  was  leaving,  Monsieur 
Merand  took  heart  to  say  : 

"  Why,  Doctor  Richard,  you  look  as  bad  as 
the  young  lady  !  " 

Mr.  Templemore,  who  already  stood  on  tlie 
threshold  of  the  shop,  turned  round  angrily, 
and  sharply  said — 

"  What  young  lady.  Monsieur  Merand  ?  " 
"  Oh  !    the   one   who  used  to   draw,   you 
know.      I   saw    her   stealing   out    of   Notre 


Dame  this  evening,  and  looking  as  white  as  a 
ghost." 

Mr.  Templemore  did  not  answer,  but  walked 
away.  The  man  could  mean  nothing,  for  he 
could  know  nothing;  but  why  was  he  to  be 
thus  persecuted  with  Dora's  name  ?  He  did 
not  return  to  Les  Roches  at  once.  He  went 
to  his  old  house  and  put  away  his  purchases. 
It  was  dark  night  now ;  and  looking  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  he  saw  a  light 
burning  in  Madame  Bertrand's  first-floor  win- 
dows ;  but  one,  that  of  Dora's  room,  remained 
dark.  It  was  open,  and  he  could  catch  a 
glimpse  of  a  pale  figure  within,  sitting  in  a 
bending  and  motionless  attitude.  He  watched 
her  for  an  hour  and  more — she  never  stirred ; 
and  when  Mr.  Templemoi'e  at  length  turned 
away,  grief,  pity,  and  indignation  filled  his 
heart.     But  he  was  powerless,  and  he  knew  it. 

"I  can  do  nothing — nothing,"  he  said  to 
himself  again  and  again. 

"  Oh !  Mr.  Templemore.  Mrs.  Logan  is 
gone ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Moore,  in  a  voice  full 
of  woe  as  he  entered  Les  Roches.  "But  she 
is  not  far — she  is  to  sleep  at  Dieppe  to-night." 

Mr.  Templemore's  only  answer  to  this  speech 
was,  "  How  is  Eva  ? '' 

"  Asleep,  I  believe." 

He  went  up  to  Eva's  room.  A  night-lamp 
burned  on  the  table ;  its  light  fell  on  Eva's 
httle  cot.  Mr.  Templemore  sat  down  and 
looked  at  the  child.  She  had  cried  herself  to 
sleep,  and  her  cheek  was  still  wet  with  tears. 

"  It  would  be  better  for  Eva  if  I  had  never 
brought  Miss  Courtenay  here,"  thought  Mr. 
Templemore,  rather  sadly  ;  "  she  will  get  over 
this  sorrow,  of  course,  but  she  must  suffer 
first,  and  suffer  keenly." 

lie  felt  much  troubled.  The  child's  grief 
pained  him  ;  and  the  sad,  motionless  figure  he 
had  seen  in  Dora's  room  pained  him  still  more 
deejily.  How  different  from  that  stricken  one 
was  the  Dora  whom  he  remembered  sitting  in 
that  now  vacant  chair  before  him,  with  the 


TROUBLED   THOUGHTS. 


181 


blue  ribbon  tying  her  bright  hair,  and  the 
light  shining  on  her  young  face  as  she  told 
Eva  little  foiry -tales !  Her  look,  her  smile, 
the  very  turn  of  her  neck,  the  very  sound  of 
her  voice,  came  back  to  him  with  strange 
vividness.  He  would  rather  have  foi'gotteu 
them,  for  they  were  painful,  and  he  still  felt, 
"  I  can  do  nothing ; "  but  Dora's  image  re- 
turned again  and  again,  and  would  not  be  de- 
nied. It  returned  radiant,  happy,  and  young, 
with  no  trace  of  pain  or  trouble  on  its  brow, 
filling  that  dull,  gloomy  room  with  its  bright- 
ness, and  smiling  down  so  tenderly  on  the 
sleeping  child,  that  the  very  heart  of  Mr. 
Templemore  thrilled  within  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

There  is  no  consolation  for  some  sorrows. 
Neither  Mrs.  Courtenay  nor  Mrs.  Luan  at- 
tempted to  comfort  Dora.  She  did  not  com- 
plain— not  a  word  of  murmur  passed  her  lips. 
Shejuoved  about  the  house,  pale  as  death,  in- 
deed, but  bearing  her  fate  in  mute  resignation, 
or  what  seemed  as  much.  Of  the  future,  of 
her  plans,  if  she  had  any,  she  did  not  speak. 
She  sat  a  good  deal  in  her  room,  sewing  assid- 
uously. Unless  early  in  the  morning,  she 
could  not  summon  heart  to  go  out.  She  had 
no  need  to  visit  the  Picture  -  Gallery  now. 
Besides,  her  story  must  be  known  in  Rouen  by 
this — the  story  of  the  girl  whom  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  future  wife  had  upbraided  with  folly 
and  shame.  She  was  sitting  in  her  room  by 
the  open  window,  within  the  shadow  of  the 
muslin  curtain,  as  this  thought  came.  Her 
story ! — there  had  been  a  time  when  she  had 
none ;  and  now  her  name  could  be  in  every 
mouth,  and  be  there  with  pity  or  with  scorn. 
Madame  Bertrand  would  have  to  fight  her  bat- 
tles, and  justify  her  witli  her  shrill  tongue — 
how  abhorrent  the  thought  was! — or  shrink- 
ingly  e.\cuse  her  on  the  score  of  inexperience. 


Dora's  needle  flagged  as  she  thought  of 
this.  She  looked  at  the  old  gray  church,  at 
tlje  lilies  once  more  in  bloom,  at  the  broken 
image  of  the  bishop,  at  the  lame  teacher's 
window,  at  the  quiet  street  below,  and  she  re- 
membered how  slie  had  felt  when  she  had  seen 
these  first.  Surely  our  life  is  like  a  wide 
land,  with  streams,  and  rivei's,  and  seas,  that 
divide  it  in  separate  and  distinct  portions. 
Surely  joy  or  grief  is  there,  as  pleasant  or 
troubled  waters  that  flow  in  diSerent  channels. 
Surely  our  happy  days  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  our  days  of  tribulation  or  sorrow  ? 
Dora  felt  as  if  she  could  have  borne  any  thing 
better  than  this  trouble.  Death — lost  love 
had  not  the  same  pangs  as  this  bitter  humilia- 
tion. Death  is  the  human  lot,  and  lost  love  a 
frequent  calamity;  but  women  who  knos' 
themselves  stainless  do  not  expect  shame,  and 
cannot  well  accept  it.  In  vain  Dora  thought : 
"  I  suppose  plenty  have  been  slandered  besides 
me ;  it  is  a  cross  which  I  must  bear.  She  was 
a  rebel  in  her  heart,  and  could  not,  or,  rather, 
would  not,  endure  it.  Intolerable  seemed  her 
fate — intolerable  and  unjust.  She  forbade  her 
thoughts  to  question  Providence;  but  what 
thought  does  not,  the  heart  will  often  do. 
This  was  not  her  only  sorrow.  Her  keenest 
pang  sprang,  perhaps,  from  the  fact  that  she 
might  and  should  have  foreseen  this.  She 
should  never  have  gone  to  Mr.  Templemore's 
house.  Her  very  love  for  him  should  have 
kept  her  away.  Trouble  was  sure  to  spring 
from  it.»  Fair  though  its  opening  looked,  that 
episode  of  her  life  could  not  end  otherwise 
than  in  darkness.  There  is  a  beautiful  picture 
by  one  of  the  old  masters  which  shows  us  the 
child  Jesus  calmly  sleeping  on  his  cross. 
There  is  no  grief,  no  care  in  that  childish 
face,  divine  even  in  its  repose.  The  cross  is 
small,  like  the  tender  naked  limbs  which  rest 
upon  it.  But  it  will  grow  to  man's  length, 
and  we,  who  know  the  later  story,  the  via 
dolorosa  which  ended  on  Calvary  to  purchase 


182 


DOEA. 


our  redemption — we  cannot  gaze  on  that  child- 
ish cross  -rfithout  sorrow. 

Thus,  though  we  know  it  not,  is  man3^|a 
human  hfe,  of  which  we  only  see  the  begin- 
ning, and  cannot  divine  the  close.  The  cross 
is  there — the  cross  which  will  grow  with  the 
growth  of  that  life,  and  from  which  it  can 
never  more  be  divided;  the  cross  which  it 
must  bear  up  some  spiritual  Golgotha,  and  to 
which  it  is  nailed  at  last,  sometimes  in  shame, 
or  what  the  world  deems  such — ever  in  grief 
But  what  we  who  look  on  cannot  always  see 
is  often  known  to  the  sufferer;  early  pangs 
reveal  the  future  agony.  To  feel  love  for  one 
who  does  not  return  our  affection,  and  yet 
seek  that  being's  dear  society,  is  to  court  our 
own  destruction.  Virtue,  peace,  or  fair  name 
is  imperilled,  and  one  must  certainly  perish. 
This  Dora  knew,  and  the  knowledge  of  her 
own  wrong-doing  stung  her. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  gazed  very  wistfully  at  her 
daughter  whenever  she  joined  them;  but 
Dora's  countenance,  once  so  expressive,  was 
now  silent.  She  would  not  complain,  and  she 
forbade  her  looks  all  language.  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay could  scarcely  I'epress  her  tears,  and  Mrs. 
Luan  was  more  sullen  than  ever ;  but  Dora's 
face  gave  no  sign.  She  was  cold  and  impas- 
sive, as  if  all  sensibility  had  left  her. 

Thus  she  was  the  first  day,  and  on  the  mor- 
row, and  on  the  next  day  again.  Thus  she 
was  for  a  week,  save  that  her  pale  face  got 
paler  and  more  rigid— that  her  eyes  sank,  and 
that  her  whole  aspect  gave  terrible  indication 
of  the  cruel  strife  within.  If  she  had  com- 
plained, it  would  have  been  better;  if  she  had 
murmured  and  repined  from  morning  till 
night,  it  would  have  been  best  of  all.  But  not 
once,  from  the  moment  she  loft  Les  Roches, 
did  her  lips  part  to  utter  so  much  as  "  My 
lot  is  hard."  Berhaps  she  was  silent  because 
her  full  heart  would  have  made  her  say  too 
much ;  perhaps  if  she  had  spoken  she  could 
not  have  hidden  the  passion  which  was  at  the 


root  of  all  her  woe;  better,  then,  be  mute, 
than  display  to  any  eye  the  weakness  and  the 
folly  which  had  brought  down  all  this. 

She  sat  thus  on  the  evening  of  the  seventh 
day  with  her  mother  and  her-  aunt,  when  all 
three  started  as  a  man's  step  came  up  the 
staircase.  Mrs,  Courtenay  and  her  sister-in- 
law  exchanged  looks,  but,  ere  they  had  well 
recovered,  Dora  had  risen  and  entered  her 
room.  Its  door  was  closing  as  Mr.  Temple- 
more  opened  the  other  door  and  entered  the 
room  where  Mrs,  Courtenay  and  Mrs.  Luan 
sat  alone. 

"  She  heard  me,  and  left  for  that  reason," 
he  thought,  casting  a  quick  look  round  the 
room. 

"  Bray  take  a  seat,  Mr.  Templemore,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  looking  a  little  flurried. 

"Why  did  Miss  Courtenay  go  ?"  he  asked. 

"  She  has  a  bad  headache,"  began  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. 

"  She  has  nof ! "  bluntly  interrupted  Mrs. 
Luan;  "but  she  would  not  see  Mr.  Temple- 
more."  J 

"  And  why  would  she  not  see  me,  Mrs. 
Luan  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Templemore,','  here  remarked 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  my  daughter  has  been  cruelly 
used,  and  I  think  you  know  it." 

"  Heaven  knows  how  keenly  I  feel  it,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Templemore.  "But,  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay, I  wish  you  could  induce  your  daughter  to 
hear  me — just  for  a  few  moments." 

"  I  shall  try,"  said  Mrs,  Luan,  and  she  went 
in  to  Dora.  Mr.  Templemore  waited  in  silence 
for  her  reappearance;  but  when  the  door, 
which  had  closed  behind  her,  opened  again, 
and  she  came  forth  alone,  it  needed  not  her 
clouded  face  to  tell  him  that  Dora  had  refused 
to  see  him. 

"  She  says  she  cannot,"  sullenly  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  sitting  down  once  more,  and  evidently 
both  dissatisfied  and  disappointed. 

"Xo,  of  course  she  cannot,"  querulously  re- 


NOTRE  DAME 


183 


marked  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  and  so,  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  please  to  come  no  more.  I  am  very 
sorry  to  be  so  inhospitable,  after  all  your  kind- 
ness, but  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  come  after 
what  has  passed." 

"But  I  must  see  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  in- 
sisted. "I  know  this  intrusion  may  seem 
cruel,  but  I  have  good  reason  for  it — indeed  I 
have.  And  you  must  prevail  with  your  daugh- 
ter, Mrs.  Courtenay — you  really  must ! " 

His  tone  and  his  looks  were  very  urgent. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  could  not  resist  him. 

"  I — I  shall  try,"  she  stammered ;  and  ris- 
ing, she  went  to  Dora's  room. 

She  found  her  daughter  looking  at  the  door 
^ith  a  troubled,  breathless  look,  as  if  her  fate 
lay  behind  those  old  oaken  panels. 

"  I  will  not  see  him,"  she  whispered,  and  she 
shook  from  head  to  foot  as  she  said  it ;  "  I  will 
not  hear  explanation  or  apologies.  Tell  him 
he  has  not  wronged  me,  and  that  I  have  noth- 
ing to  forgive  ;  but  I  will  not  see  him — never 
— never ! " 

"  Dora,  he  looks  quite  ill.  He  has  been  ill, 
I  am  sure  ;  he  only  wants  to  sec  you  five  min- 
utes— only  five  minutes.  Since  he  has  not 
wronged  you,  how  can  you  refuse  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  see  him,"  said  Dora,  as  if  she 
were  repeating  a  lesson  learned  by  rote  ;  "never 
— never ! " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  begged  in  vain.  Dora  clasped 
her  hands  and  piteously  said,  "  I  cannot ! — I 
cannot ! " 

With  that  answer  her  mother  came  back. 

Mr.  Tcmplcmore's  cheeks  flushed  as  he  heard 
Mrs.  Courtenay  deliver  her  daughter's  mes- 
sage. 

"  I  would  wilUngly  force  myself  on  no  one, 
least  of  all  on  a  lady,"  he  said,  after  a  while, 
"  but  this  is  no  common  case — and  I  cannot 
write.  I  must  see  Miss  Courtenay  once,  and 
once  she  must  hear  me.  I  have  nothing  to 
explain,  and  no  forgiveness  to  ask ;  but  I  have 
that  to  say  to  which  she  ought  not  in  justice 


to  refuse  to  listen.  I  trust  I  shall  find  her 
more  lenient  another  time." 

"  But  excuse  me,  Mr.  Templemore,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  a  little  crossly,  "ought  you 
come  here  at  all  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  at  the  two  women 
very  earnestly.  "  Will  you  keep  my  secret  ?  " 
he  asked,  in  a  subdued  tone. 

They  both  replied,  after  a  pause,  that  they 
would. 

"  Well,  then,  I  mean  to  ask  5Iiss  Courtenay 
to  become  my  wife ;  but  I  wish  to  ask  her  my- 
self— ^not  through  another,  nor  even  by  writ- 
ing." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  burst  into  tears,  and  uttered 
a  fervent  "  God  bless  you  !  " 

Mrs.  Luan's  whole  face  kindled,  but  she  did 
not  speak. 

"  Will  you  prevail  on  Miss  Courtenay  to 
grant  me  an  interview,  Mrs.  Courtenay  ?  " 

"  I  shall  try,  Mr.  Templemore — I  shall  try." 

"  Then  I  rely  upon  you ;  and  since  my  pres- 
ence is  only  keeping  Miss  Courtenay  a  pris- 
oner in  her  room,  I  shall  bid  you  both  a  good- 
evening." 

Ee  left  them;  but  scarcely  had  he  gone 
down  three  steps  of  the  narrow  wooden  stair- 
case, when  the  door  above  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Luan  appeared  at  the  head  of  the  banisters. 
As  if  unaware  that  he  had  seen  her,  and  was 
waiting  to  know  what  she  had  to  say,  she 
touched  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  and  said, 
in  a  whisper : 

"  She  goes  to  Notre  Dame  at  eight  o'clock 
every  morning." 

Without  giving  him  time  to  reply,  this  un- 
expected ally  reentered  the  apartment.  She 
found  Mrs.  Courtenay  urging  the  point  on  Dora, 
and,  to  all  seeming,  with  little  chance  of  suc- 
cess. 

"  But  what  harm  can  it  do  you  to  see 
him?"  asked  Mrs.  Courtenay;  adding,  with 
suspicious  eagerness,  "he  can  have  little  or 
nothii^  to  sav." 


184 


DORA. 


"  I  cannot  see  him — oh  !  I  cannot,  indeed  I 
cannot ! "  said  Dora,  who  was  still  trembling 
from  head  to  foot.  "  It  would  serve  no  good, 
and  it  would  break  my  heart — I  cannot  see 
him ! " 

She  spoke  in  such  tones  of  sorrow  that  Mrs. 
Courtenay  was  silenced. 

"  He  must  write,"  she  said,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Luan — "he  must  write." 

"Yes,  yes,  let  him  write,"  almost  eagerly 
said  Dora ;  "  tell  him  that,  if  you  like.  I  can 
bear  a  letter,  but  not  the  other  thing." 

Unconscious  of  Mrs.  Luan's  treachery,  Dora 
stole  out  as  usual  the  nest  morning.  Every 
morning  she  now  entered  Notre  Dame  at  eight, 
and  stayed  there  in  a  side-chapel,  sometimes 
for  an  hour,  sometimes  for  more.  She  felt  as  if 
but  for  this  she  must  have  died.  The  relief  of 
that  hour's  silence,  solitude,  and  prayer,  saved 
•her  from  despair.  She  did  not  always  pray. 
There  were  times  when  the  storm  within  could 
not  be  allayed — when  she  left  that  solemn  old 
church  as  desolate  as  she  had  entered  it,  a 
scorned,  unloved,  and  disgraced  woman.  But 
other  times  there  were  when  a  divine  balm 
sank  on  her  soul  and  soothed  her  fever  to  rest. 

As  the  waves  of  time  had  beaten  in  vain 
against  the  foundations  of  that  aged  pile,  so  it 
seemed  to  her  tliat  the  brief  troubles  of  life 
should  be  endured  by  the  immortal  spirit. 
What  were  her  sufferings  to  eternity  ?  Some- 
times she  looked  at  the  representations  of 
saints  and  martyrs  on  the  painted  glass  above 
her,  and  fell  into  a  languid  reverie.  Old  sor- 
rows, old  trials,  old  triumphs  were  there,  and 
painted  of  the  dead  by  men  who  in  their  turn 
had  become  dead.  Was  it  so  hard  to  suffer 
and  be  heroic,  to  go  through  this  brief  life  in 
a  lofty,  passionate,  enduring  spirit  ?  And  now 
there  stole  a  dream  over  her — a  dream  danger- 
ous in  her  present  mood,  a  temptation  that 
wore  the  face  of  an  angel.  Why  should  she 
not  leave  that  world  which  she  found  so  harsh 
and  enter  some  calm  retreat  of  happii^s  and 


prayer !  Were  there  not  asylums  provided  for 
the  wounded  and  the  conquered,  homes  in 
which  they  could  live  and  die,  far  from  every 
unkind  gaze  ?  Ah !  if  her  mother  were  but 
provided  for,  how  she  would  seek  the  strong- 
hold where  Louise  de  la  Miserieorde  forgot 
the  sins  and  follies  of  Louise  de  la  Valliere ; 
how  she  would  do  like  that  other  Louise,  the 
daughter  of  the  profligate  French  king,  and 
put  eternal  barriers  between  her  and  a  cruel 
world ! 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  As,  after  sitting  for 
an  hour  in  the  chapel,  Dora  left  it  by  one  of 
the  side-doors,  and  entered  a  little  court,  she 
started  to  see  Mr.  Templemore  looking  at  her 
with  a  fixed  and  very  son'owful  gaze.  The 
blood  flew  to  her  heart,  her  head  swam,  and 
she  remained  motionless  as  he  approached 
her.  At  first  she  thought  that  chance,  not 
design,  had  led  to  the  meeting ;  but  when  he 
said,  gravely — 

"  Miss  Courtenay,  why  will  you  not  see 
me?" 

She  colored,  and  answered,  with  quick  and 
keen  reproach :  "  Mr.  Templemore,  this  is  not 
right — it  is  not  generous  ! " 

He  looked  pained,  and  almost  angry.  He 
walked  away  two  steps,  then  he  came  back. 

"Let  me  call  upon  you  this  evening,"  he 
said,  "and  speak  five  minutes  to  you,  and  I 
shall  never  trouble  you  again — never  ! " 

She  wanted  to  deny  him,  but  the  words 
faltered  on  her  lips.  She  looked  at  him,  and 
felt  like  one  in  a  dream — all  her  firmness,  all 
her  will,  seemed  to  leave  her  as  their  eyes  met. 
She  meant  to  say  "No,"  and  it  was  "Very 
well — as  you  please,"  that  she  uttered. 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  to  retract,  but  at 
once  turned  away. 


OHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

The  three  ladies  sat  in  their  quiet  room ; 
Mrs.  Courtenay  with  her  hands   folded,  Mrs. 


A  MARRIAGE  PROPOSAL. 


185 


Luan  with  her  patchwork  on  her  lap,  ami 
Dora  by  the  opeu  window,  doing  nothing,  and 
looking  at  the  old  church  front,  which  rose 
dark  and  heavy  in  the  gray  light  of  evening. 
The  hour  was  very  calm  ;  the  city  was  quiet ; 
a  faint  breeze  from  the  river  stirred  the  yellow 
wall-flowers  midst  the  buttresses,  and  Dora's 
quick  ear,  quickened  by  the  fever  of  expecta- 
tion at  her  heart,  caught  the  sound  of  a  well- 
known  step  coming  up  the  silent  street.  She 
shrank  back,  for  she  knew  it — bow  often  had 
she  sat  thus  by  the  open  window,  seeming  to 
look  at  the  evening  sky,  but  in  reality  listen- 
ing for  his  coming  !  She  knew  it,  and  raising 
her  bent  and  flushed  face,  she  said,  as  she 
turned  toward  her  mother  and  her  aunt : 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Templemore  this  morning  in 
Notre  Dame.  He  is  coming  this  evening.  I 
believe  he  wants  to  speak  to  me." 

"  I  hear  his  voice  below,"  eagerly  said  Mrs. 
Luan. 

She  rose  as  she  spoke.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
looked  bewildered. 

■  "  Surely — "  she  began.      Her   sister-in-law 
would  not  let  her  proceed. 

"  Come  along,  she  said,"  imperatively ;  "  Mr. 
Templemore  wants  to  speak  to  Dora  alone." 

Dora  attempted  to  remonstrate,  and  Mrs. 
Courtenay  to  resist;  but  Mrs.  Luan  heeded 
neither.  The  battle  was  nearly  won,  and  a 
conqueror's  fierceness  was  upon  her.  She 
took  her  sister-in-law's  hand,  and  half  raised, 
half  pushed  her  out  of  her  chair. 

"  I  tell  you  he  must  see  Dora  alone,"  she 
angrily  whispered,  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  rather 
indignantly  asked  to  know  what  she  meant  by 
such  conduct. 

"  Aunt ! "  said  Dora,  but  her  mother  had 
suddenly  joined  the  enemy,  and  Dora  was 
alone  in  the  room  by  the  time  Mr.  Temple- 
more opened  the  door  and  entered  it. 

She  had  risen  on  hearing  his  step  coming  up 
the  staircase,  and  she  now  stood  before  him 
silent  and  grave.    The  pale  evening  light  from 


the  open  window  fell  on  her  face.  He  drew 
near  her  without  speaking,  then  stood  still. 
They  both  exchanged  a  long,  silent  look  of 
sorrowful  scrutiny.  Well  they  might.  The 
same  storm  had  passed  over  them  both,  and 
left  its  cruel  traces  ui)on  cither.  How  worn, 
how  heart-struck  looked  these  two  !  He  took 
her  passive  hand,  he  looked  in  her  face  with 
the  deepest  sori-ow. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  did 
not  see  you  rightly  tins  morning.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  I  am  the  cause  of  this  V  " 

A  proud,  sad  smile  passed  across  Dora's 
face. 

"  You  were  the  pretence — not  the  cause  !  " 
she  said. 

She  threw  her  head  back,  a  little  as  if  she 
defied  her  hard  fate,  and  much  as  if  she  re- 
pelled all  pity,  all  sorrow  it  might  draw  forth 
from  him.  But  a  true  and  generous  heart  is 
not  easily  discouraged.  Mr.  Templemore 
looked  at  her  very  earnestly. 

"  You  do  not  want  me  to  bear  my  share  of 
this  calamity,"  he  said,  "  and  yet  I  came  here 
this  morning  to  know  if  you  will  not  let  me 
i-epair  the  cruel  wrong  I  have  unconsciously 
inflicted  upon  you." 

She  looked  at  him  in  doubt.  He  raised  her 
hand,  wl^icli  he  still  held,  and  pressed  it  to 
his  lips.  The  blood  rushed  to  her  heart,  her 
brain  swam ;  she  knew  his  meaning,  and  with 
the  knowledge  came  a  wild  fear  of  yielding  to 
this  temptation.  She  snatched  her  hand  from 
him ;  she  gave  him  a  look  of  sudden  dread, 
and  turned  ashy  pale. 

"  No,  no  !  "  she  cried — "  never  !  never  ! 
You  have  no  wrong  to  repair,  Mr.  Temple- 
more. Oh  !  God  forbid  this  should  ever 
be ! " 

"  Why  so  ?  "  he  asked,  very  calmly. 

Dora  could  not  answer  him  at  once. 

"  Will  you  not  sit  down,  and  allow  me,  at 
least,  to  speak  of  this  more  fully  ?  "  he  con 
tinned,  quietly. 


186 


DORA. 


"  Xo,  no,"  she  replied,  excitedly,  "  this 
must  never  be — never !  never ! " 

"  But  Miss  Courtenay,  why  will  you  not 
hear  me  ? — I  ask  for  no  more." 

He  spoke  very  gently,  but  with  somethiug 
like  reproach.  Doi'a  felt  ashamed  of  her 
vehemeuce ;  she  sat  down  in  silence,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  sat  down  by  her  side  and  re- 
sumed : 

"I  believe  you  have  understood  me,  but 
there  shall  be  no  doubt — no  possible  mistake. 
I  wish,  and  allow  me  to  add  I  hope,  that  you 
will  be  good  enough  to  become  my  wife." 

A  crimson  flush,  which  died  away  in  sudden 
paleness,  passed  across  Dora's  face.  She 
clasped  her  hands,  and  wrung  them  in  a  sort 
of  anguish,  for  again  the  fear  of  yielding  to 
this  temptation  came  over  her. 

"But  that  cannot  be,"  she  replied.  "I 
cannot  marry  you — never !  never !  " 

"  Why  so  ? "  he  asked,  and  he  almost 
smiled. 

"  Because  you  want  to  marry  me  from 
honor,  Mr.*  Templemore — because  my  reputa- 
tion is  damaged,  or  lost — and  because  the 
world  says,  or  will  say,  that  it  is  so  lost 
through  you.  But  I  am  too  proud  a  woman 
to  take  you — to  take  any  man  so." 

She  wanted  to  rise  and  end  the  matter,  but 
he  entreated  her  to  hear  him  out. 

"  Only  hear  me  out,"  he  urged  ;  and  she 
sat  down  again,  silently  repining  at  her  own 
weakness.  "  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said, 
in  his  most  persuasive  accents,  "  do  not  put 
it  all  upon  my  honor,  and,  do  not  let  your 
pride  divide  us.  Why  should  not  ours  be  a 
good,  an  honorable,  and,  allow  me  to  add,  a 
happy  marriage  ?  " 

"Happy!"  she  interrupted— "how  many 
days  is  it  since  you  loved,  and  were  to  marry, 
Mrs.  Logan  ?  " 

"  Not  many,"  he  replied,  slowly — "  no,  in- 
deed, not  many  ;  but  what  of  that  ?  I  loved 
her — I  had   faith  in  lior — what  was  her  love 


for,  her  faith  in  me  ?  She  tarnished  my  honor 
— she  did  her  best  to  ruin  you.  Can  I  ever 
forget  or  forgive  either  sin  ?  " 

There  was  severity  in  his  look  and  in  his 
voice,  but  there  was  emotion  too. 

"He  loves  her,"  thought  Dora,  with  invol- 
untary jealousy  ;  "  he  asks  me  to  marry  him 
in  that  calm  tone,  and  he  denies  loving  her  in 
that  accent  of  regret.  I  should  be  mad  "to 
take  him  so." — "  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said, 
trying  to  speak  very  calmly,  "  this  must  not 
be.  We  must  not  rush  on  such  a  fate  with 
our  eyes  open.  For  oh  !  how  we  should  rue 
it ! — how  we  should  rue  it !  " 

She  clasped  her  hands ;  she  spoke  with  a 
subdued  passion  in  her  voice — with  a  strange, 
sad  light  in  her  eyes,  which  he  saw,  but  could 
not  understand.  What  ailed  her  ? — what  was 
it? 

"Am  I  abhorrent  to  you  ?  "  he  asked,  after 
a  while.  "  If,  when  we  first  met,  before  you 
knew  of  my  engagement  with  Mrs.  Logan,  I 
had  asked  you  to  marry  me,  would  you  have 
rejected  me  thus,  without  even  taking  time 
to  think  over  it  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not,"  hastily  replied  Dora,  blush- 
ing at  the  equivocation ;  "  but  Mr.  Temple- 
more, I  cannot  marry  a  man  who  loves  an- 
other woman  ! — I  cannot ! — I  will  not !  You 
cannot  say  that,  if  it  were  not  to  right  me  in 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  you  would  ask  me 
to  become  your  wife — you  cannot  say  it !  " 

"I  begin  by  denying  the  love  you  persist 
in  taking  for  granted.  Miss  Courtenay,"  he 
replied,  very  gravely.  "  A  tree  takes  years 
to  grow,.but  let  a  storm  uproot  it,  or  man's 
hand  lay  it  low,  and  it  dies  and  withers  in  a 
few  days.  What  though  some  green  leaves 
linger  on  the  boughs — it  is  none  the  less 
doomed  to  perish.  Thus  has  fared  my  affec- 
tion for  Mrs.  Logan.  The  shock  has  been 
violent  and  cruel,  like  the  lopping  of  a  limb  ; 
and  I  will  not  deny  that  I  felt  it  keenly — ^nay, 
more,   I  will   confess   it,  the    wound   is   not 


MISS  COURTENAY'S  HESITATION. 


187 


healed  yet,  and  but  for  the  sad  trouble  her 
cruel  folly  hcas  caused,  I  should  scarcely  care 
to  thmk  of  marriage  now.  But,  Miss  Courte- 
nay,  you  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  have  always  admired  you,  and  that  if  I  had 
been  a  free  man,  I  should  most  probably  have 
come  to  you  long  ago  on  the  errand  which 
brings  me  here  this  evening." 

Dora  could  not  help  looking  at  him  in  so 
much  perplexity,  and  doubt,  and  amazement, 
that  he  smiled. 

"  Do  you  wrong  my  taste  and  my  judgment 
so  much  as  to  suppose  I  could  not  see  and 
prize  your  many  gifts?  "  he  asked  remojjstra- 
tively ;  "  believe  me,  dear  Miss  Courtenay, 
neither  Doctor  Richard  nor  Mr.  Templemore 
was  so  blind  or  so  indifferent  as  you  imagine. 
How  could  he  see  you  almost  daily  so  long 
and  not  admire  you  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  a  warmth,  with  a  respectful 
tenderness,  which  stirred  the  depths  of  Dora's 
heart.  With  a  sort  of  terror  she  felt  her 
resolve  giving  way,  and  her  denial  was  uttered 
with  something  like  despair  :  "  No — it  cannot 
be!" 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  both  troubled  and 
perplexed. 

"Then  you  condemn  me  to  sohtude,"  he 
said,  "  for  how  can  I  marry  another  woman 
and  be  happy  with  her  whilst  you  suffer 
through  me  ?  Pride,  Honor,  Conscience,  for- 
bid it  alike ! " 

"  I  do  not  suffer,"  replied  Dora,  lifting  up 
her  head  with  a  proud,  denying  motion. 

"  And  you  persist  in  your  refusal  ?  " 

"I  do." 

He  rose,  but  not  to  leave  her.  He  only 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  and  came  back 
to  her  side  after  taking  a  few  turns. 

"  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  said,  soothingly, 
and  taking  lior  hand  as  he  spoke,  "  do  not 
struggle  against  Fate — this  thing  must  be. 
You  must  be  my  wife,  and  I  must  be  your  hus- 
band.    You  are  the  only  woman  I  can  marry 


in  honor,  and  I  am  the  only  man  whom  so- 
ciety will  let  you  marry.  Providence  has  or- 
dained that  our  friendship  shall  become  the 
closest  and  the  dearest  tie ;  let  us  not  strive 
against  its  decrees,  but  obey  and  bless  them. 
Where  there  has  been  a  true  friendship,  is  it 
so  hard  to  love?  When  society  and  inter- 
course have  been  so  pleasant,  is  it  so  hard  to 
endure  them  daily  ?  Why  should  we  not  be 
happy,  very  happy  together  ?  Ah  !  surely  far 
happier  than  apart !  Do  not  bid  me  give  you 
up — I  cannot  do  it !  The  desire  I  feel  for  this 
is  like  the  presentiment  of  a  great  good  sud- 
denly placed  within  my  reach.  Is  not  Eva's 
strange  and  sudden  love  for  you  a  token  of  our 
destiny  ?  That  you  will  be  as  dear  to  me  as  a 
wife  can  be  to  her  husband's  heart,  I  know  as 
well  as  that  I  am  sitting  by  your  side,  with 
your  dear  hand  in  mine ;  and  do  not  think  me 
presumptuous  if  I  feel  confident  of  winning 
your  affections  with  time.  Is  it  in  your  na- 
ture, ti-ue  woman  as  you  are,  not  to  end  by  lov- 
ing the  man  whose  name  aud^  existence  you 
share  ?  I  promise  you  to  be  patient  at  first, 
and  not  exacting.  I  shall  not  expect  you  to 
forget  in  a  day  the  bitter  hours  which  have 
preceded  this  brief  and  sad  wooing.  For  the 
present  I  shall  ask  little  or  nothing,  because  I 
feel  so  confident,  so  sure  of  the  future." 

Dora  heard  him,  and  felt  in  a  dream. 

"  Ah  !  but  if  that  future  should  never  come," 
she  argued,  rousing  herself;  "  if  we  should  be 
bound  to  each  other  for  life,  and  feel  that  bond 
grow  heavier  daily !  Can  you  imagine  how 
frightful  that  would  be,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"Xo,"  he  replied,  with  manly  frankness, 
"  for  I  cannot  imagine  myself  remaining  cold 
or  indifferent  toward  a  young,  attractive,  and 
amiable  v!\l\\  I  do  not  think  I  should  feel  so 
toward  a  plain  one,  provided  she  were  good ; 
how  then  could  I  be,  as  you  say,  to  one  who 
is  good,  pretty,  and,  to  crown  all,  delightful 
company  ?  Dear  Miss  Courtenay,  it  would  be 
most  unnatural ;  and  allow  me  to  add  that,  as 


188 


DORA. 


with  fine  natures  love  wins  love,  I  feel  sure  of 
securing  your  affection  with  time.  Then  do 
not  wonder  if  I  urge  this  matter  upon  you. 
Love,  peace,  and  happiness  are  all,  as  it  were, 
within  my  grasp — do  not  deny  me !  " 

He  spoke  almost  as  if  he  loved  her  already — 
so  tender,  so  persuasive  was  his  tone.  Could 
this  gi'eat,  this  unattainable  happiness  have 
come  within  her  reach  ?  She  felt  dizzy  ;  she 
did  not  know  whether  it  was  with  fear  or  with 
joy  ;•  and  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said,  she 
replied : 

"  Yes,  later — perhaps  as  you  say — but  later." 

"Dear  Miss  Courteuay,"  he  urged,  "  it  must 
be  now.  We  must  get  married  at  once — we 
cannot  delay." 

"  Now  !  "  she  repeated,  suddenly  sobered — 
"  now,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"  Now,  indeed !  "  he  too  repeated. 

"  Now  ! "  she  said  again ;  "  now,  when  hon- 
or, generosity,  all  urge  you  to  it !  And  if  you 
regret  it  later,  Mr.  Templemore — if  you  repent, 
what  fate  shall  be  ours  ?  " 

"  But  I  cannot  repent,"  he  replied,  a  little 
indignantly.  "You  wrong  me,  Miss  Courte- 
nay,  by  indulging  such  a  thought." 

She  was  silent.  He  resumed,  in  a  more 
gentle  tone : 

"  Believe  me,  I  know  what  I  am  doing.  I 
am  taking  a  good  and  attractive  woman  to  be 
my  companion  for  life  ;  why,  what  sort  of  a 
man  should  I  be  to  repent  an  act  which  ought 
to  give  me  the  greatest  happiness  ?  Surely," 
he  added,  with  an  admiring  smile,  "  you  have 
learned  before  to-day  that  you  have  the  power 
to  win  and  to  charm  ?  " 

Poor  Dora !  she  could  not  resist  tlie  language 
of  tliis  tender  flattery.  A  deep  warm  blush 
stole  over  her  face,  and  for  a  n»ment  made 
her  strangely  beautiful.  Mr.  Templemore  saw 
that  he  had  prevailed,  but  he  wanted  her  to 
say  so. 

"  Tell  me  that  you  consent  ?  "  he  asked. 

Tiie  words  sent  Dora  back  to  that  morniii"- 


in  Notre  Dame,  and  her  dream  there,  and  all 
that  had  passed  since  then.  She  rose — it  was 
as  if  a  storm  had  seized  and  now  shook  her 
frail  Ijeing. 

"  It  is  not  too  late  yet,"  she  said  in  a  low 
distinct  tone  ;  "  you  are  free  still,  Mr.  Temple- 
more." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  free,"  he  answered 
smiling,  as  he  took  her  hand  again. 

She  left  it  clasped  in  his.  She  stood  within 
two  paces  of  him,  calm,  pale,  and  with  a  light 
in  her  eyes  that  sent  a  thrill  through  him. 

"  Mr.  Templemore,"  said  she  in  the  same 
low  voice,  "  before  you  pledge  yourself  irrevo- 
cably, hear  me  and  heed  me.  I  am  not  so 
good  or  so  perfect  as  you  think.  I  am  proud — 
a  very  proud  woman.  I  am  easily  offended,  but 
do  not  easily  forget  or  for^ve  a  wrong.  If  I 
become  your  wife,  I  shall  do  so  knowing  that 
you  do  not  marry  me  for  love.  That  knowl- 
edge may  make  me  unreasonable  and  exact- 
ing. I  have  never  anticipated  such  an  ordeal, 
and  dare  not  answer  for  my  wisdom  or  my 
patience.  Oh  !  Mr.  Templemore,  sound  your 
own  heart  and  pause.  If  you  are  not  sure 
that  you  will  never  repent — if  you  are  not 
sure  that  I  shall  never  read  regret  or  weariness 
in  your  eyes,  leave  me  for  your  own  sake — for 
I  should  turn  dangerous — for  mine,  for  I 
should  go  mad  !  Leave  me  now,  I  say  !  My 
charm  may  wear  oiF  with  novelty  ;  your  liking 
may  grow  cool,  and  my  short  happiness  go 
with  it.  Better  by  far  immerited  disgrace 
than  such  a  lot — better  present  heart-ache 
than  to  be  happy  a  few  hours,  and  rue  them 
forever — forever ! " 

What  strange  thoughts  will  come  when  no 
one  bids  tliera !  Mr.  Templemore  heard  Dora 
out,  and  as  he  looked  at  her  pale  face,  lit  up 
with  a  passionate  emotion,  and  held  her  hand, 
he  thought,  "I  did  not  know  this  was  in  her  ! 
To  think  of  that  pleasant,  good-tempered  look- 
ing girl  being  finer  than  any  tragic  queen ! 
Rachel  herself  never  looked  more  like  a  being 


THE  FAIRY-TALE. 


189 


all  spirit  and  flame  than  this  Dora  Courtenay  ; 
she  never  uttered  a  '  forever  ! — forever ! '  so 
mournful  and  so  boding.  Yes,  I  can  believe 
it — there  is  danger  in  her." 

But  we  all  love  danger,  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more  liked  Dora  pone  the  worse  for  recogniz- 
ing in  her  that  element  of  peril.  Besides,  he 
had  no  doubt — no  fear. 

"  I  dread  nothing,"  he  replied,  with  a  secure 
smile — "  nothing  of  that  kind,  at  least.  I  shall 
never  feel  regret  or  weariness,  never — never." 

How  could  she  doubt  him  ?  He  did  not 
doubt  himself.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was 
yielding  to  a  keen  temptation.  He  was  not  in 
love,  but  there  are  many  feelings  besides  love 
which  rule  a  man's  heart,  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more  would  have  risked  his  own  happiness  and 
Dora's  ten  times  over,  rather  than  give  her  up 
just  then.  Her  very  warning  was  sweet  as  an 
allurement,  her  forebodings  had  the  charm  of 
a  fond  defiance.  There  is  no  knowing  how  he 
might  have  felt  if  he  had  suspected  that  this 
proud  girl  loved  him ;  but  she  had  guarded 
her  secret  well,  and  he  knew  it  not.  He  only 
knew  that  she  was  young  and  attractive,  and 
hard  to  win,  and,  manlike,  he  liked  her  all 
the  better  for  it ;  and  thus  their  fate  was  de- 
cided. 

It  was  a  mere  formality,  when  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay and  Mrs.  Luan  at  length  came  forth,  to 
ask  the  former  lady  for  her  daughter's  hand, 
but  Mr.  Templemore  went  through  it.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  burst  into  tears,  and  Mrs.  Luan 
looked  as  stolid  as  if  Mr.  Templemore's  words 
had  fallen  on  her  ear  and  not  reached  her 
understanding.  It  was  all  settled,  however, 
and  settled  very  quickly ;  the  very  marriage- 
day  was  fixed  when  Mr.  Templemore  left  them 
that  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 
Mr.  Templemore  went  home  on  foot.     lie 
went  home  along  a  gray  moDnht  road,  with 


here  and  there  a  patch  of  trees,  throwing  their 
black  mass  of  shadow  across  his  path,  or  a 
slope  of  ground  rising  against  a  starry  sky. 
He  felt  like  one  in  a  dream,  and  the  balmy 
evening  air  added  to  the  languor  which 
pervaded  his  being.  He  could  not  forget 
Dora  Courtenay.  It  was  not  love,  it  was  not 
admiration  ;  it  was  something  which  partook 
of  the  nature  of  both  feelings,  and  yet  which 
was  neither,  that  brought  her  face  thus  ever 
before  him.  He  saw  it  on  tliat  lonely  road 
with  its  look  of  tragic  sorrow  and  sad  warning 
that  stirred  his  very  heart ;  as  plainly  as  in 
the  worn  by  the  open  window,  "when  he  held 
her  hand  in  his,  as  distinctly  did  he  see  her 
now. 

And  it  was  not  love  that  summoned  her  to 
his  side.  ALis  !  no,  it  was  something  very 
different  from  that  pure  and  tender  feeling. 
It  was  the  dawn  of  passion,  none  the  less  dan- 
gerous that  it  would  be  felt  for  a  wife,  and 
might  conceal  itself  under  the  cloak  of  duty. 
His  love  for  Mrs.  Logan  had  been  misplaced, 
but  it  had  been  a  true,  calm,  and  tender  affec- 
tion, the  affection  which  a  wise  woman  wishes 
to  inspire.  Very  different  froni  this  was  the 
new  feeling  it  was  Dora's  fate  to  waken  in  Mr. 
Templemore's  heart.  She  deserved,  indeed, 
the  love  Mrs.  Logan  had  had  and  lost ;  but 
perhaps  Mr.  Templemore  could  not  like  two 
women  successively  after  the  same  fashion ; 
perhaps,  too,  that  Dora's  stronger  nature 
wakened  in  him  the  restless  and  stormy  ele- 
ment, and  appealed  to  that  faculty  of  imagina- 
tion which  a  pretty  childish  creature  like  Flor- 
ence had  left  dormant.  He  questioned  him- 
self as  he  walked  home  along  the  lonely  road, 
and  he  wondered  at  the  calmness  with  which 
he  could  think  of  his  late  love,  and  at  the 
strange  yearning  which  came  over  him  when 
he  contemplated  his  approaching  marriage. 
He  wondered  and  questioned,  and  the  answer 
had  not  come  when  he  readied  Lcs  Roches. 

It  was  early  yet,  and  little  Eva  rushed  out 


190 


DORA. 


to  meet  him.  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her,  and  the  purest  emotion  connected 
with  his  new  feelings  came  to  him  as  be 
thought : 

"  Yes,  she  will  be  a  good  and  tender  mother 
to  my  child." 

They  went  in  together,  and  as  soon  as  they 
entered  the  school-room  Eva  got  upon  her 
father's  knee,  and  laid  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Aunt  says  Cousin  Dora  Avill  never  come 
back,"  she  began,  in  her  most  doleful  voice. 

Mr.  Templemore  smiled.  He  already  saw 
a  bright  young  mistress  at  Les  Roches,  and  he 
could  imagine  Miss  Moore's  amazement  and 
consternation. 

"But  Cousin  Dora  will  come  back,"  he 
said,  in  answer  to  Eva.  "  I  saw  her  this 
evening,  and  she  promised  to  return." 

"  To-morrow  ? "  cried  Eva,  clapping  her 
hands  in  great  glee. 
"  No,  not  to-morrow." 
Eva  looked  blank.  The  good  deferred  is 
not  a  good  for  childhood.  Besides,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, when  questioned  more  closely,  could 
not  even  say  that  Cousin  Dora  would  come 
after  to-morrow.  It  was  plain  he  knew 
nothing  about  it.  Moreover,  he  was  imusually 
silent  this  evening.  Eva  saw  it,  and  pouted. 
Then  she  grew  petulant  and  exacting,  and 
begged  for  a  fairy-tale.  Mr.  Templemore 
smiled,  and  rousing  himself  from  bis  reverie, 
be  said : 

"A  fairy-tale!  Why,  Eva,  the  world  is  full 
of  fairy-tales.  I  saw  one  the  other  day— for 
you  know  that  in  fairy-tales  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  time— with  the  fairy  and  the  prin- 
cess— " 

"  And  the  prince  ?  "  suggested  Eva. 
"Well,  yes,  a  sort  of  prince  there  was, 
too." 

"And  what  was  the  fairy  like  ?  " 
"Little,  wrinkled,  old,  and  very  cross!    She 
had  just  l^roken  her  eggs  and  spilt  her  milk, 


and  even  fairies  will  be  put  out  by  such  dis- 
asters ;  so  the  princess  came  to  her  assistance, 
and  gave  her  more  milk  and  eggs." 

"  No,"  contradicted  Eva,  "  it  is  the  fairy 
who  gives  the  milk  and  eggs,  not  the  princess, 
you  know  ! "  , 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  asked  Mr,  Templemore. 
"  Quite    sure,"   triumphantly   replied   Eva, 
"  it  is  the  fairy  who  gives  the  milk  and  eggs, 
and  they  turn  into  gold  and  diamonds,  you 
know !" 

"Well,  they  may  yet  turn  into  gold  and 
diamonds,"  answered  Mr.  Templemore,  smiling. 
"  So  far  you  are  right,  Eva." 

."And  what  is  she  like — the  princess,  I 
mean  V  "  asked  Eva,  curiously. 

"  A  sunbeam,  if  you  like  it — or  your  Cousin 
Dora ! " 

"  Is  she  as  beautiful  as  Cousin  Dora  ?  " 
"  Oh !  quite ! " 
"And  the  prince?" 

"  Ah  !  the  prince,  to  be  sure.  Well,  there 
is  not  much  to  be  said  about  him,  save  that 
he  comes  for  the  princess,  and  that  they  both 
go  away  in  a  fiery  car — very  like  a  rail-way- 
carriage — and  are  ever  so  happy  somewhere 
or  other !  "  , 

"  And  is  that  all  the  fiiiry-tale  ?  "  asked  Eva, 
looking  disappointed. 

"My  dear,  you  spoiled  it.  I  would  have 
shown  you  how  distressed  the  poor  old  fairy 
was,  and  how  the  beautiful  princess  came  to 
the  rescue,  and  how  grateful  the  faii-y  felt,  and 
how  she  sTiowed  her  gratitude  by  heaping  all 
sorts  of  troubles  on  the  poor  princess,  till, 
having  tried  her  to  the  utmost,  she  call'ed  in 
the  prince,  who  was  only  hiding  all  the  time, 
and,  bidding  him  deliver  the  pi'incess,  and 
make  her  happy,  she  vanished  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke." 

"  And  did  he  deliver  her  ?  "  asked  Eva,  in- 
terested. 

"  I  believe  so — I  h'ope  so !  I  hope,  too,  he 
made  a  princess  so  good  and  so  amiable  as 


SUN  AND   SHADE. 


191 


happy  as  she  deserved  to  be ;  but  I  am  not 
sure  of  it,  you  see — not  having  yet  read  that 
part  of  the  story." 

Eva  looked  very  grave  and  thoughtful ;  she 
seemed  to  be  meditating  over  the  mysterious 
ending,  but  in  reality  she  was  sleepy.  Ere 
long  her  eyelids  fluttered,  then  closed,  her 
head  sank  heavily  on  her  father's  shoulder, 
and  a  gentle  little  snore  announced  her  de- 
parture for  a  fairy-land  much  visited  by  young 
ladies  of  her  years.  Mr.  Templemore  rang 
for  Fanny,  and  as  the  girl  took  the  child 
away,  he  thought :  "  Yes,  she  will  be  a  good 
mother  to  my  child." 

Alas !  if  he  had  questioned  his  heart  very 
closely,  Mr.  Templemore  would  have  known 
that  he  did  not  care  much  for  Dora's  good- 
ness just  then.  She  was  already  to  him  as 
one  of  those  fair-haired  sirens  who  allured 
Greek  mariners  in  the  blue  seas,  and  whom 
they  followed,  not  caring  whither,  so  sweet 
was  it  to  go  to  perdition  in  their  track. 
"  What  ailed'  me,  that  I  never  saw  it  before 
to-night?"  he  thought.  "The  very  child 
saw  it,  and  I  did  not.  She  is  beautiful — of 
that  subtle  beauty  which  escapes  analysis,  and 
charms  most.  Yet  I  may  do  myself  justice. 
I  did  not  think  of  that  wben  I  went  to  ask  her 
to  become  my  wife." 

Yes,  however  unwise  might  be  this  passage 
in  the  drama  of  Richard  Templemore's  life, 
there  was,  at  least,  this  saving  clause  to  it, 
and  which  in  his  darkest  hours  he  remem- 
bered with  just  and  manly  pride.  Duty, 
honor,  not  faithlessness  of  heart,  or  the  folly 
of  a  strong  desire,  had  first  taken  him  to  Dora 
Courtenay.  He  was  alone  now  in  that  room 
where  he  had  spent  some  happy  hours  with 
her  and  Eva.  Every  object  he  saw  i-eminded 
him  of  long  hours,  which  had  seemed  brief, 
they  were  so  delightful.  How  he  remembered 
those  pleasant  evenings  during  which  Eva 
dressed,  and  undressed  Minna,  whilst  he  sat 
talking,  arguing,  and  discoui'sing  with  Eva's 


governess !  What  a  bright,  clear  mind  she  had, 
and  what  a  listener  she  made  !  Plans  which 
he  never  could  have  formed  had  the  childish 
Florence  been  his  wife,  now  thronged  to  his 
mind.  Mr.  Templemore  was  too  much  de- 
voted to  study  to  require  a  companion  to  help 
him  in  his  wooing  of  this  austere  mistress. 
But  still  it  would  enhance  her  chai-ms  to  have 
such  a  fellow-student  as  Dora.  Ay,  truly  it 
was  something  to  go  down  the  stream  of  life 
with  this  bright  fellow-traveller,  and  feel  as 
they  went  that  they  were  strangers  in  nothing. 
No  fatal  bar,  no  cruel  division  of  intellect,  or 
faith,  or  temper,  or  belief,  need  come  between 
these  two.  Mr.  Temj^lemore  knew  Dora  too 
well  not  to  know  this  also,  and  perhaps  such 
knowledge  had  made  duty  easy,  and  free  from 
all  sacrifice.  He  did  not  ask  himself  how  he 
would  have  acted  if  Dora  had  not  been  what 
she  was,  and  we  will  not  say  it  for  him. 
What  was  right  because  he  felt  that  this  girl 
could  truly  become  flesh  of  his  flesh  and  heart 
of  his  heart,  might  have  been  wrong  if  it  had 
not  been  in  his  power  to  admit  her  to  such  a 
communion  in  his  being.  But  no  such 
obstacle,  existed  between  them.  All  his 
visions  showed  him  a  fair  young  wife,  with 
bright  hair,  and  soft,  shy  eyes,  whom  he  could 
chain  to  his  side  without  tyranny ;  for  what- 
ever his  pursuits  might  be,  she  could  share 
and  like  thera,  and  yet  not  like  them  merely 
for  his  sake,  or  to  please  him.  Little  wonder, 
then,  that  he  let  such  visions  come,  and  gave 
them  welcome,  on  that  lonely  evening,  after 
leaving  Dora,  knowing  that  he  should  see  her 
on  the  morrow,  and  that  before  the  week  was 
out  she  would  have  become  his  wife. 

Dora,  too,  had  her  dreams,  but  oh !  how 
different  they  were  from  Mr.  Templemore's ! 
She  soon  escaped  from  her  mother's  hysterical 
joy  at  such  unexpected  good  fortune  to  lier 
own  room,  and  there  she  sat  and  tried  to 
think.  Ah  !  how  happy  she  would  have  been 
if  she  could  have  looked  at  the  future  with  his 


192 


DORA. 


eves !  But  do  what  she  would,  a  dark  and 
beavy  cloud  ever  came  and  veiled  from  her 
the  glorious  radiance  of  her  lot.  To  be  Mr. 
Templemore's  wife,  honored,  blessed,  re- 
deemed from  disgrace — pang  so  keen  to  a 
proud  heart — to  be  his  cherished  and  chosen 
companion,  his  friend,  the  mother  of  his 
child,  the  partaker  of  his  cares,  his  sorrows, 
and  his  joys — ay,  truly  that  was  deep  happi- 
ness, and  happiness  both  deep  and  pure.  But, 
oh !  to  be  his  wife,  and  to  see  him  suffer  and 
repent,  to  feel  herself  a  burden  and  a  clog 
upon  him,  to  be  not  disliked,  but  endured,  and 
to  see  it,  and  have  to  bear  it — that  was  the 
cloud,  and  it  appalled  Dora's  heart  like  the 
last  great  final  darkness. 

"  Oh  !  better  anything  than  that ! — better 
anything  !  "  she  moaned.  ,  "  I  shall  tell  him  to- 
morrow that  I  cannot — no,  I  cannot !  "  But 
when  tears  came  and  relieved  her — when  she 
remembered  how  earnest,  how  tender  had 
been  his  assurances  of  affection,  faith  returned, 
and  with  faith  the  fond  human  yearning  for 
this  possible  happiness.  For  she,  too,  knew 
there  was  a  strange  affinity  between  them. 
They  had  tlie  same  tastes,  the  same  likings, 
the  same  hopes  and  desires.  They  only  dif- 
i'ered  where  it  was  pleasant  to  do  so,  and  for 
this  no  doubt  the  society  of  the  one  had  al- 
ways been  so  agreeable  to  the  other.  Dora, 
too,  could  imagine  such  a  life  as  fancy  had 
shown  to  Mr.  Templemore.  "  We  shall  read 
and  study  together,"  she  thought,  "  and  I  will 
be  his  amanuensis,  and  help  him,  and  he  will 
teach  me.  Ah  !  if  he  can  only  forget  Mrs. 
Logan,  we  shall  be  happy— -happy  to  the 
heart's  core."  But  that  fatal  "if"  brought 
the  cloud  again ;  -the  bright  life  of  love  and 
intellectual  delights  vanished  in  dismal  ob- 
scurity, and  a  faintness,  like  that  of  death, 
came  over  Dora's  whole  being.  She  did  not 
liear  her  room-door  open,  but  she  saw  the 
Hudden  flash  of  a  light,  for  she  was  sitting  in 
darkness,  and  turning  round  with  a  startled 


exclamation,  she  beheld  her  aunt.  Mrs.  Luan 
put  down  the  light  she  held,  and  closing  the 
door,  came  up  to  Dora.  There  was  a  strange, 
exulting  glitter  in  her  eyes,  and  a  triumphant 
smile  on  her  lips  as  she  said,  "  Well,  Dora,  I 
told  you  so — you  will  be  Mrs.  Templemore." 

"  Yes,  aunt,  you  told  me  so,"  replied  Dora  ; 
but  she  sighed  di'earily. 

"  You  will  be  a  rich  woman,"  said  Mrs. 
Luau.     "  Mr.  Templemore  is  a  rich  man." 

Dora  did  not  reply ;  she  was  not  indifferent 
to  wealth,  but  Mr.  Templemore's  moved  her 
not. 

"  He  will  be  a  generous  husband,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Luan.  "  He  will  give  you  plenty  of 
things." 

Dora  began  to  feel  surprised,  not  at  the 
sordid  tone  of  her  aunt's  remarks,  but  at  the 
fluency  with  which  they  were  uttered.  Mrs. 
Luan  spoke  with  a  sharp  distinctness  so  un- 
usual in  her,  that  Dora,  after  a  moment's 
reflection,  ascribed  it  to  the  excitement  of  joy 
which  her  countenance  expressed  very  plainly. 

"  And  you  will  not  forget  to  say  a  good 
word  for  John  Luan,"  resumed  Mrs.  Luan ; 
"  he  is  your  cousin,  and  deserving — and  what 
is  there  Mr.  Templemore  cannot  do  for  him 
if  he  chooses  ?  Besides,  he  will  do  any- 
thing to  please  you." 

"Are  you  so  sure  of  that,  aunt?"  asked 
Dora  with  involuntary  bitterness.  "  He  does 
not  marry  me  for  love,  you  know  !  " 

Mrs.  Luan  shook  her  head,  and  muttered 
something  which  Dora  did  not  understand. 

"  No,  he  does  not  marry  you  for  love,"  she 
resumed,  looking  very  hard  at  Dora  ;  "  but  I 
saw  him  looking  at  you  this  evening.  If  he 
had  not  found  out  before  you  were  worth  that 
little  babyish  thing  ten  times  over,  he  found 
it  out  to-night." 

Dora  looked  incredulous,  and  somewhat 
impatient. 

"  I  tell  you  he  did ! "  almost  hnpetuously 
said  her  aunt — "  I  tell  you  that  man  will  dote 


MRS.   LUAN'S  ADVICE. 


193 


on  you,  if  you  know  how  to  manage.  I  told 
you  he  would  marry  you,  and  he  is  going  to 
do  so.  I  tell  you  he  will  dote  on  you — and 
you  will  see  it." 

Her  vehemence  almost  frightened  Dora. 

"  Aunt,  aunt !  "  she  said,  soothingly.  But 
Mrs.  Luan  stamped  her  foot  angrily. 

"  You  will  spoil  all  if  you  mope,"  she  said : 
"  he  liked  you  for  your  bright  face — and  you 
must  be  bright  as  the  sun.  He  liked  you 
because  you  laughed  and  sang,  and  read  and 
played,  and  drew  —  then  do  it  all  again. 
What  need  you  fret  ?  You  wanted  him,  and 
you  have  him.  If  yon  cry,  you  will  remind 
him  of  Florence  Gale.  Do  not  give  him  time 
to  think ;  make  him  so  happy  that  he  will — 
that  he  must  forget." 

"  Make  him  forget  her ! "  cried  Dora,  with 
involuntary  passion  and  jealousy.  "  Oh  ! 
that  I  could ! — that  I  could  ! " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  at  her  with  something 
like  contempt. 

"You  can  if  you  will,"  she  said  at  length. 

"  Oh  1  aunt,  how  ?— how  ?  " 

And  Dora  looked  at  her  aunt  as  she  had 
never  looked  before. 

"  I  have  never  been  handsome,"  replied 
Mrs.  Luan,  "  and  I  am  not  clever  or  bright 
Uke  you — at  least,  people  say  so  ;  but  when 
I  had  a  husband  I  never  let  him  think  of  an- 
other woman." 

"  How  did  you  manage,  aunt  ? "  asked 
Dora,  rather  astonished. 

Mrs.  Luan  nodded  knowingly. 

"  You  will  find  it  out — you  will  find  it  out !  " 
she  repeated. 

'•  No— never,"  replied  Dora  with  some  emo- 
tion. "  He  may  like  me  if  he  pleases ;  and 
if  he  does  not  he  may  leave  me." 

"  Idiot !  "  angrily  said  Mrs.  Luan — "  idiot ! 

Why  do  you  marry  him,  then  ?    I  tell  you  it 

is  your  right  and  your  duty  to  fascinate  your 

husband,  and  make  him  forget  that  woman." 

Mrs.  Luan  spoke  the  truth,  and  Dora's  con- 
13 


science  told  her  so.      Yes,  it  was  her  right  and 
her  duty  to  win  and  keep  her  husband's  heart. 

"I  beheve  you  are  right,  aunt,"  she  replied 
after  a  while ;  "  and  I  shall  do  my  best — but 
I  may  fail." 

"  Why  should  you  fiiil  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Luan ; 
but  her  tone  was  sobering,  and  her  look,  her 
voice,  her  manner  were  all  getting  confused 
again.  "  Why  should  you  fail  ?  Of  course  a 
pretty  girl  like  you  can  easily  get  hold  of  her 
husband;  for  I  have  always  noticed,"  she 
added  in  the  tone  of  a  person  who  enounces 
a  doubtful  proposition,  "  that  men  like  pretty 
women,  and  that  Mrs.  Logan  is  not  so  very 
pretty.  Now,  you  are  fair,  and  being  dark, 
he  must  like  you — indeed,  I  suppose  he  liked 
you  all  along,  only  he  did  not  find  it  out ;  but' 
I  am  sure  he  did  this  evening — any  one  could 
see  he  was  quite  smitten,  though  you  were  so 
pale.  So  when  you  are  married  you  have 
only  to  get  your  color  back  and  to  manage, 
and  he  will  dote  upon  you ;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  he  will  do  anything  you  like  for  John 
Luan." 

She  spoke  with  her  old  incoherence,  and 
yet  her  words  fell  like  balm  on  Dora's  heart. 
The  good-night  she  uttered  when  her  aunt 
left  her  had  a  tenderness  in  it  which  said 
much.  Illusion  or  not,  she  felt  she  must  be- 
lieve Mrs.  Luan,  or  perish  in  her  despair. 
Yes,  she  must  beheve  that  she  was  already 
dear  to  Mr.  Templemore,  and  that  she  would 
grow  far  dearer  still,  or  she  could  never  face 
the  future. 

"  Aunt  is  right,"  she  thought ;  "  it  is  my 
duty  and  my  right  to  charm  my  husband.  I 
must  not  fret,  I  must  not  be  pale  and  look 
heart-sick — I  must  be  young,  handsome,  and 
happy,  and,"  she  added,  glancing  at  the  mir- 
ror, before  which  she  now  stood  undoing  her 
long,  bright  hair, "  I  will !  " 

Easy  resolve  to  accomplish  when  the  brow 
is  fair,  and  the  eyes  are  bright;  when  the 
check  is  young  and  blushing,  and,  above  all, 


194 


DORA. 


when  there  is  a  girl's  strong  though  modest 
love  in  the  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A  DREAM,  in  which  Mrs.  Courtenay  saw 
Dora  presented  with  a  pair  of  diamond  ear- 
rings by  her  fond  husband,  was  rather  abrupt- 
ly disturbed  by  Dora  herself  the  next  morn- 
ing. Mrs.  Courtenay  sat.up  and  stared  at  her 
daughter,  who  stood  by  her  side  dressed,  and 
with  her  bonnet  on. 

"  Why,  Dora,  what  time  is  it  ?  "  she  asked, 
"  that  you  are  already  going  out  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  out — I  have  been  out,  and 
I  have  just  come  in,"  said  Doi-a,  who  looked 
rather  sad  and  pale.  "  Mamma,  I  have  a 
great  deal  to  say  to  you — will  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Surely,"  replied  Mrs.  Courtenay,  whose 
mind  was  all  running  on  the  trousseau — "  of 
course  you  have  a  great  deal  to  see  to — ^I 
could  scarcely  sleep  for  thinking  of  it — but 
there  is  an  excellent  shop  in  the  Eue  Tmperi- 
ale,  and — " 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  Dora  interrupted, 
with  an  expression  of  great  pain ;  "  what  I 
Tiave  to  say  is  this  :  I  cannot  become  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore's  wife." 

"  But,  my  dear,  you  have  promised  ! "  cried 
Mrs.  Courtenay. 

"  True ;  and  the  breaking  of  that  promise, 
which  has  cost  me  a  sleepless  night,  will  not 
cqst  him  a  sleepless  hour,"  replied  Dora,  very 
sadly.  "Mamma,  Mr.  Tcmplemore  marries 
me  from  honor,  and  I  cannot,  I  will  not  be 
married  so.  I  said  'yes'  last  night  because  I 
was  mad  •,  and  I  dare  say  I  should  say  '  yes ' 
again  if  he  were  to  urge  the  point — therefore 
I  must  go.  I  have  been  out  this  morning 
and  made  every  needful  inquiry.  If  we  leave 
Rouen  by  twelve,  we  can  be  in  London  to- 
morrow." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  confounded.  Here  was 
a  fall,  indeed,  from  the  diamond  car- rings  of 


her  dream  to  the  departure  of  reality.  When 
she  recovered  from  her  amazement,  it  was  to 
argue  against  so  sudden  a  resolve.  Especially 
did  she  urge  Dora  not  to  go  without  seeing 
Mr.  Templemore.  "It  will  affront  him  so," 
she  said,  pitifully. 

Dora  hung  her  head.  Yes,  it  would  affront 
hiaa ;  but  it  would  not  pain  him.  The  sting 
could  go  no  deeper  than  pride :  even  her 
childish,  innocent  mother,  who  saw  so  little, 
could  see  that. 

"  I  cannot  see  him,"  she  said,  looking  up  ; 
"  I  cannot  say  to  him  all  I  say  to  you,  mamma. 
It  would  look  like  calling  forth  protestations 
which  I  do  not  wish  to  hear.  He  would  have 
to  tell  me  again  that  I  am  young,  pretty,  and 
amiable,  and  that  of  course  he  admires  me, 
and  must  love  me  in  the  end.  No,  I  cannot 
say  all  that,  and  hear  him  over  again.  Bo- 
sides,  he  might  not  understand  me.  For,  after 
all,  I  do  not  want  my  husband  to  adore  me — 
I  do  not  deserve  or  expect  extravagant  affec- 
tion from  any  man ;  only  no  man  shall  marry 
me  from  honor — ^none  ! — none  !  "  she  added, 
her* eyes  flashing  and  her  voice  ringing  as  she 
spoke. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  argued  again ;  but  her 
daughter,  though  she  listened  to  her  patiently, 
was  not  moved  by  her  arguments. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  said,  despondently. 
"  I  do  believe  that  if  the  feeling  I  have  now 
should  come  to  me  at  the  altar  when  we  both 
stood  before  the  priest,  and  he  had  his  book 
open,  I  do  believe  t  should  say  'n(i'  even 
then." 

"  My  dear,"  innocently  said  her  mother,  "  I 
alwf\ys  thought  you  liked  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

Dora's  pale  cheek  flushed ;  but  she  gave 
Mrs.  Courtenay  no  direct  answer. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  said  again ;  "  I  would 
rather  marry  John  Luan  than  become  Mr. 
Templemorc's  wife  on  these  terms." 

"  And  do  you  think  of  John  Luan,  then  ?  " 
doubtfully  asked  Mrs.  Courtenay. 


DORA'S  DISAPPEARANCE. 


195 


"Think  of  bim  !  think  of  any  man  witli 
this  burden  of  disgrace  npon  me ! "  cried 
Dora,  with  a  sudden  agony  of  grief.  "  Why, 
who  would  have  mo  ?  No — not  John  Luan 
himself,  though  he  has  liked  me  years,  and 
though  I  need  only  say,  '  I  am  guiltless,'  for 
him  to  believe  me.  He  told  me  so  last  night : 
I  can  marry  but  one  man." 

"  Well,  then,  marry  him,"  promptly  said 
her  mother. 

Dora  shook  her  bead.  "  Time  is  passing," 
she  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  and — oh  !  how  I  long 
to  be  gone — ^gone,  and  at  peace  ! " 

"  But,  my  dear,  Mr.  Templemore  will  prob- 
ably follow  us,  and — " 

"  Follow  us  ?  "  interrupted  Dora ;  "no,  mam- 
ma, there  is  no  fear  of  that ;  he  will  be  af- 
fi'onted,  as  you  said — besides,  he  need  not 
know  where  we  are  going." 

It  was  hard  to  give  up  so  bright  a  vision  as 
that  which  had  not  merely  given  Dora  a  pair 
of  diamond  ear-rings,  but  had  seen  her  throned 
at  Les  Roches,  and  made  her  mistress  of  Dec- 
nah  ;  it  was  hard,  but  it  had  to  be  done  ;  and 
Mrs.  Courtenay  got  up  and  prepared  for  the 
approaching  journey. 

Mrs.  Luan,  on  fearning  Dora's  determina- 
tion, stamped  her  foot,  and  stammered  forth 
an  angry  remonstraup e  of  "  Idiot !  idiot !  you 
shall  not,  you  must  not!"  but  had  to  grow 
calm  again  before  Dora's  resolve.  For  she 
was  resolute  indeed.  Pride,  duty,  had  been 
with  her  in  the  night,  and  both  had  forbidden 
her  to  become  Mr.  Templemore's  wife.  Mrs. 
Luan  stared,  then  said  sulkily,  acknowledging 
herself  conquered  : 

"  You  may  go — I  will  not — why  should  I  ? 
— John  is  not  in  London — I  shall  stay  here." 

"I  hope  you  will  join  us  later,"  replied 
Dora ;  "  but  it  is  better  that  you  should  not 
come  with  us  now." 

"And  what  will  Mr.  Templemore  say?" 
asked  Mrs.  Luan. 

"Not  much,"  answered  Dora,  "for  be  will 


not  care  much,  aunt.  I  shall  write  a  few  lines, 
which  you  will  give  him  when  he  comes,  and 
he  will  be  angry  at  tirst — then  forget  it." 

Mrs.  Luan  muttered  something  to  herself, 
then  was  silent.  No  more,  indeed,  was  said 
on  the  subject,  and  nothing  occurred  to  delay 
and  impede  Dora's  departure.  As  twelve 
struck,  the  tidal  train  left  the  Rouen  station, 
and  leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  where  she 
sat  by  the  side  of  her  amazed  and  dismayed 
mother,  Dora  could  say  to  herself,  with  a  bitter 
sigh,  "  It  is  all  over  !  " 

But  when  is  anything  over  in  life?  The 
very  step  Dora  had  taken  to  escape  her  fate 
only  precipitated  its  course,  and  made  its  ac- 
complishment more  certain. 

It  was  barely  two  when  Mrs.  Luan,  who  sat 
alone  moody  and  defeated,  heard  Mr.  Temple- 
more coming  up  the  staircase.  He  came  to 
spend  an  hour  with  Dora.  He  came  in  more 
sober  mood  than  be  bad  left  her  the  night  be- 
fore, seeing  the  plain  facts  of  his  marriage 
more  as  they  were  than  as  they  had  seemed 
in  that  moment  of  seduction  and  fervor ;  but 
he  came  also  as  a  lover  to  woo  his  mistress, 
if  not  with  fear  and  doubt  of  her  favor  on  his 
mind,  at  least  with  sufficient  tenderness  for 
her  in  bis  heart.  Madame  Bertrand  was  not 
below,  and  there  was  nothing  to  warn  bim  of 
what  had  occurred  when  he  entered  the  sitting- 
room,  and  seeing  its  disorder,  Mrs.  Luan  sitting 
alone,  and  a  sealed  letter  lying  on  the  table, 
he  understood  all  in  a  moment. 

"Where  is  Miss  Courtenay?"  he  asked, 
sharply. 

"  Gone ! " 

"  Gone  ? " 

He  took  the  letter,  broke  its  seal,  read  it, 
then  crushed  it  angrily,  and  looking  at  Mrs. 
Luan,  he  exclaimed  impetuously — 

"How  dare  Miss  Courtenay  use  me  so  ?  " 

Alas !  Dora  was  right — his  first  feeling  was 
not  one  of  pain,  but  of  wrath  and  offended 
pride.     How  dare  she,  the  poor  girl  whom  be 


196 


DOEA. 


had  honored  with  his  regard,  jilt  him,  Richard 
Templemore,  the  master  of  Deenah  ? 

"What  has  occurred  since  last  night  to 
justify  so  extraordinary  a  proceeding?"  he 
asked,  after  a  pause,  and,  though  still  angry, 
speaking  more  calmly. 

"They  tell  me  nothing,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan, 
sulkily ;  "  I  dont  know  anything.  I  would  not 
go^why  should  I?  John  is  not  in  Lon- 
don." 

A  light  seemed  to  break  on  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  mind.  Had  Dora  repented  and  recalled 
her  promise,  because  that  John  Luan,  her 
cousin,  her  early  friend,  was  secretly  dear  to 
her  ?  He  was  amazed  at  himself  never  to  have 
thought  of  this. 

"  Mrs.  Luan,"  he  said,  looking  hard  at  her, 
"  I  believe  I  can  guess  Miss  Courtenay's  reason 
for  acting  as  she  has  acted.  I  forgive  her 
freely ;  but  why  was  she  not  open  with  me  ? 
Could  you  not  have  told  her  how  willing  I  was 
to  do  everything — and  I  can  do  much — that 
would  forward  her  happiness  ?  Why  did  she 
not  tell  me  all  last  night  ?  "  he  asked,  a  little 
indignantly.  "  Was  it  honorable,  was  it  fair, 
to  pledge  herself  to  one  man,  when,  in  her 
heart,  she  liked  another  ?  " 

The  words  roused  Mrs.  Luan. 

"Who? — what?"  she  asked,  with  sudden 
animation,     "  Who  is  it  Dora  likes  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  remembered  her  old  oppo- 
sition to  the  scheme  he  had  framed  for  her  son 
and  Dora,  and  he  hesitated  to  reply. 

"  I  know  nothing,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I 
can  only  conjecture.  If  any  one  knows  the 
truth  of  this,  surely  you  do,  Mrs.  Luan ;  and 
surely,  seeing  how  strangely  I  am  treated," 
he  added,  with  some  bitterness,  "  you  might 
enlighten  me,  that,  once  for  all,  I  may  know 
how  to  act." 

Mrs.  Luan  rose  and  confronted  him. 

"  You  want  to  know  ?  "  she  said. 

"  I  do,"  he  replied,  turning  red  with  anger 
as  he  foresaw  her  reply,  and  felt  certain  that 


he  had  been  betrayed  and  sacrificed  for  a 
rivaj. 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  Dora  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  impatiently  answered.  "  Why 
should- 1  ?  " 

"  Well,  then,"  deliberately  said  Mrs.  Luan, 
"  she  likes  you." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  on  Mrs.  Luan,  as, 
after  uttering  these  words,  she  sat  down  again, 
with  amazement,  on  which  followed  incredu- 
lity. 

"  Nonsense,"  he  said,  with  something  like 
contempt  for  the  attempted  imposition.  "  I 
know  you  do  not  want  your  niece  and  your 
son  to  marry ;  but  you  need  not  say  that,  Mrs. 
Luan." 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  "  she  stammered, 
angrily. 

"  I  cannot — no,  I  cannot ! "  he  answered, 
with  slight  hesitation.  "  Like  me,  and  run 
away  from  me  because  I  want  to  marry  her ! 
Wlioever  heard  the  like  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Luan 
again.  "  Then  why  did  you  ask  ?  Why  did 
you  want  to  know  ?  Why  did  you  make  me 
tell  you  ?  " 

She  shook  with  auger.  Mr.  Templemore 
looked  at  her,  and  felt  strangely  troubled. 
What  if  this  sallow,  heavy  woman  had  spoken 
the  truth  ? — what  if  Dora  Courtenay  loved 
him,  and  had  fled  because  she  loved  him  ? 

"  No,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  pause,  "  it  can- 
not be — I  should  have  seen  it." 

"  Seen  it,  Mr.  Templemore ! "  rather  scorn- 
fully echoed  Mrs.  Luan.  "  Seen  it,  when  you 
are  blind — blind  as  a  mole ! " 

Yes,  this  man  had  been  so  blind  hitherto, 
he  had  fallen  so  easily  into  the  snares  she  had 
laid  for  him,  that  she  could  not  help  despising 
him  for  his  blindness,  and,  in  the  insolence  of 
her  success,  taunting  him  with  it.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore turned  sharply  upon  her.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  had  a  double  revelation:  that  the 
girl  who  had  pledged  herself  to  him  the  night 


HER  ADDRESS. 


197 


before,  and  fled  that  morning,  loved  him — and 
that  the  low-browed  woman,  who  spoke  to  him 
■with  such  strange  insolence,  was  his  betrayer, 
he  saw  by  rapid  intuition.  But  either  one 
vision  chased  the  other ;  either  the  intoxi- 
cating consciousness  of  his  triumph  over  one 
proud  woman's  heart  hid  from  him  all  trace 
of  his  humiliating  defeat  at  the  hands  of 
another  woman,  or  that  integrity  and  ingenu- 
ousness, which  forbid  us  to  suspect  without 
proof,  helped  his  undoing  by  telling  him  not 
to  heed  an  angry  woman's  words. 

"  Mrs.  Luan,  I  did  not  wish  to  offend  you," 
he  said,  with  a  smile ;  "  but  your  tale  is  so 
strange  that  I  may  well  doubt  it.  Can  you 
give  me  any  token,  any  proof  of  what  you 
say  ?  " 

"  Xo,"  she  said,  sullenly.  "  Would  Dora  put 
it  down  in  pen  and  ink,  '  I  like  Doctor  Rich- 
ard ?  '  Xo,  I  can  give  you  no  proof,  but  I  wish 
I  may  never  see  John  again  if  it  be  not  true  ! " 

The  words  "  Doctor  Richard  "  did  more  to 
convince  Mr.  Templemore  than  the  imprecation 
which  followed  it.  Doctor  Richard  !  There  was 
strange  magic  in  the  name,  and  in  the  recol- 
lections it  called  up.  Signs  which  he  had  not 
heeded  at  the  time  came  back,  and  each  was 
eloquent,  and  had  its  own  tale  to  tell.  Many 
a  blush,  many  a  sudden  paleness,  looks  both 
proud  and  shy,  the  happy  glow  which  over- 
spread her  face  when  he  entered  the  room,  its 
seriousness  when  he  rose  to  go,  were  now  re- 
membered, and  for  the  first  time  understood. 
Had  she,  then,  liked  that  poor,  careless  Doc- 
tor Richard,  of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  save 
that  he  was  poor  ?  Had  she  liked  him  with- 
out thinking  of  the  owner  of  Deenah,  or  the 
master  of  Les  Roches  ?  Mr.  Templemore 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  with  irresolute 
steps,  almost  convinced,  and  yet  still  doubt- 
ing. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  for  Miss  Courtenay's 
address  ?  "  he  said,  at  length.  "  I  must  sec 
her,  or,  at  least,  write."  ^ 


He  uttered  the  last  word  slowly,  like  one 
whose  mind  is  not  yet  made  up.  When  he 
said  that  he  must  write,  Mrs.  Luan's  face  fell. 
Had  she  remained  in  Rouen — had  she  be- 
trayed Dora's  secret  for  this  ?  "Write  ! — was 
Dora  the  girl  to  change  her  purpose  for  a  letter  ? 

"  They  tell  me  nothing,"  she  said,  sulkily. 
"  I  don't  know  where  they  are." 

"  But,  Mrs.  Luan,"  he  argued,  a  little  im- 
patiently, "  it  cannot  end  thus  between  Miss 
Courtenay  and  me.  I  must  either  see  her  or 
write  to  her,  and  surely  you  will  help  me 
to  the  knowledge,  without  which  I  can  do 
neither." 

"  They  tell  me  nothing,"  again  said  Mrs. 
Luan,  stolidly ;  "  they  are  in  London — that's 
all." 

With  a  mixture  of  pity  and  contempt  for 
her  obstinate  stupidity,  Mr.  Templemore  sat 
down  by  her  side,  and  conceiving  that  he  had 
offended  this  foolish  and  sulky  woman,  he  did 
his  best  to  coax  her  back  into  a  good-humor. 

"  Come,  my  dear  Mrs.  Luan,"  he  said,  with 
his  most  persuasive  smile,  "  you  must  be  my 
friend  in  this.  How  can  I  direct  a  letter  to 
Miss  Courtenay,  London  ?  " 

"  Kensington,"  corrected  Mrs.  Luan. 

"  But  even  Kensington  wiU  not  do.  I  can- 
not, at  least,  trust  to  the  chance  of  an  unex- 
ceptionably  clever  postman  in  so  important  a 
matter  as  this.  There  are  streets  in  Kensing- 
ton— which  is  it?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  street — it's  a  terrace,"  sharply 
corrected  Mrs.  Luan. 

"  Come,  we  are  getting  on,"  good-humoredly 
rejoined  Mr.  Templemore.  "Just  tell  me 
what  terrace,  and  I  shall  not  ask  for  the  num- 
ber." * 

"  Number  5,"  said  Mrs.  Luan. 

"But  what  terrace?"  asked  Mr.  Temple- 
more, in  his  most  coaxing  tones. 

Mrs.  Luan  turned  up  her  eyes,  and  seemed 
to  try  and  remember,  then  shook  her  head,  in 
token  of  denial. 


198 


DORA. 


'  "  I  nave  forgotten,"  she  said  ;  "  but  the  post- 
man will  be  sure  to  know." 

"  Sure  to  know,  when  I  dare  say  there  are  a 
hundred  terraces ! "  said  Mr.  Templemore,  in 
a  vexed  tone.  "  Come,  Mrs.  Luan,  you  must 
really  try  and  remember." 

But  he  might  as  well  have  tried  to  move  a 
stone  wall  as  to  move  Mrs.  Luan.  She  said 
the  postman  would  be  sure  to  know  that  it 
was  Number  5,  and  a  terrace,  and  beyond 
this  she  could  not  be  got.  Vexed  and  wearied, 
Mr.  Templemore  left  her  at  the  end  of  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour,  muttering,  as  he  went  down- 
stairs, "  There  never  was  such  a  fool  as  that 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

And  now  that  Mrs.  Luan's  cross-cxamhiation 
was  over,  Mr.  Templemore  had  leisure  to  think. 
Never  in  all  his  life  had  he  felt  so  strangely 
perplexed  and  troubled  as  he  did  then.  Should 
he  write  to  Dora,  or  should  he  follow  her  ? — or, 
in  plainer  speech,  should  he  marry  her  or  not  ? 
Even  a  man  in  love  has  been  known  to  pause 
before  so  formidable  an  alternative  as  this. 
"Wlien  his  duty,  as  he  conceived  it — when  his 
honor  had  made  him  oflPer  his  hand  to  the  girl 
■whose  devotion  to  his  child  had  in  some  sort 
caused  her  ruin,  Mr.  Templemore  had  not  felt 
the  hesitation  he  felt  now.  Then  every  gen- 
erous impulse  of  his  nature  had  urged  him  on, 
and  given  strange  sweetness  to  the  sacrifice  of 
his  liberty.  But  Dora  had  released  him — she 
had  released  him  in  language  so  proud  and  so^ 
cold,  that,  unless  it  was  the  veil  of  a  strong 
and  secret  love,  it  was  offensive  to  bis  pride  as 
a  man.  He  was  free — free  in  honor  as  well  as 
in  fiiet,  since  no  man  is  bound  to  press  him- 
self on  a  woman  to  importunity.  He  was  free, 
and  Mrs.  Luan  might  have  deceived  him,  or 
been  herself  mistaken.  It  was  quite  possible 
that,  though  she  felt  no  positive  aversion 
against  him,  Dora  recoiled  from  wedded  life 


with  him  just  as  he  now  hesitated  to  venture 
upon  it  with  her.  All  this  Mr.  Templemore 
felt  and  knew,  for  the  sweet  visions  of  the  pre- 
ceding evening  had  rather  paled  with  the 
morning  sun  ;  but  something  else,  too,  he  could 
not  help  feeling.  What  if  that  idiotic  Mrs. 
Luan,  as  he  mentally  called  her,  had  spoken 
divine  truths,  like  the  ancient  sibjls,  who  gave 
forth  oracles,  and  strewed  them  to  the  winds 
of  heaven,  not  knowing  their  worth  ?  "What 
if  poor  Doctor  Richard  had  been  fondly  loved 
by  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  accomplished 
ghls  he  had  ever  met  ?  What  if  the  very  sin- 
cerity of  her  feelings  made  her  shrink  from  a 
union  in  which  she  could  scarcely  hope  to  have 
her  husband's  whole  heart  ?  Here  was  a  temp- 
tation, indeed  ! — here  was  a  strange,  unex- 
pected triumph,  made  to  intoxicate  even  a 
wiser  man  than  Mr.  Templemore. 

There  was  fever  in  the  thought,  and  all  the 
seduction  of  her  paleness,  of  her  sad  looks,  and 
low  voice  came  back  with  it.  Read  by  that 
light,  these  tokens  had  a  dangerous  meaning — 
dangerous,  at  least,  to  Mr.  Templemore's  free- 
dom. As  he  walked  through  the  streets  of  the 
old  city  he  again  seemed  to  see  Dora  Courte- 
nay.  In  vain  liberty  beckoned  on  one  side, 
and  bade  him  beware  how  he  lost  her ;  on  the 
other  there  appeared  a  fairer  vision  by  far,  and 
infinitely  more  alluring. 

"  I  am  young,"  she  said,  "  and  attractive,  a 
tender,  yet  proud  woman.  Your  marriage  was 
the  folly  of  a  boy  ;  your  second  choice  did  not 
prove  the  wisdom  of  your  manhood  ;  but  what 
you  had  not  with  the  one  woman,  what  you 
could  never  have  had  with  the  other,  I  can  give 
you.  For  I  am  youth  and  I  am  love,  and  I 
come  but  once  in  a  man's  life  when  I  do  come," 
and  he  whom  I  visit,  and  yet  who  fails  to  keep 
me,  was  never  worthy  to  have  mo." 

A  colder  man  than  Mr.  Templemore  was, 
might  surely  be  forgiven  if  he  listened  to  this 
temptress.  He  paused,  he  hesitated ;  should 
he  write  and  trust  to  that  anonymous  terrace, 


MR.  TEMPLEMOPwE   IN  PURSUIT. 


199 


and  that  number  five,  for  the  safety  of  Lis  let- 
ter ;  or  should  he  seek  and  find  the  fugitive, 
and  read,  as  he  could  surely  read,  with  this 
clew  to  guide  him,  the  truth  in  her  face  !  lie 
could  not  resist  this  desire.  He  could  not  re- 
sist the  secret  hope  that  the  truth  had  been 
told  to  him  that  day.  Above  all,  he  could  not 
resist  the  longing  he  felt  to  secure  Dora  Cour- 
tenay,  and  call  her  his.  She  was  to  him  in 
this  feverish  hour  as  many  an  exquisite  relic 
of  ancient  art  had  been  for  the  last  year — a 
wish  to  be  gratified,  no  matter  how  extrava- 
gant the  cost  might  be. 

"  I  dare  say  it  were  better  for  me  that  I  had 
never  seen  her,"  he  thought,  still  pausing  irres- 
olute on  the  threshold  of  his  fate ;  "  better 
for  me  that  I  had  never  gone  to  her  house,  and 
brought  her  to  mine ;  but  now  it  is  too  late  to 
think  of  this.  She  has  lost  all  for  me.  Peace, 
fair  name,  the  world's  esteem,  the  chance  of 
honorable  marriage,  everything  perished  in  one 
hour  for  my  sake ;  but  am  I  so  selfish  and  so 
cold  that  I  cannot  atone — that  I  cannot  repay 
her  tenfold,  and  turn  her  wrong  into  unex- 
pected happiness  ?  " 

There  is  something  splendid  in  the  power  of 
giving ;  it  is  a  glorious  privilege,  and  makes 
us  kings  and  sovereigns  for  the  hour,  as  with 
the  stroke  of  an  enchanter's  wand.  Mr. 
Templemore  could  not  help  smiling  to  himself 
as  he  thought  how  he  could  change  Dora's  des- 
olation into  joy.  She  would  never  tell  him — 
never — but  surely  blind  though  Mrs.  Luau 
thought  him,  he  could  see  it.  He  looked  at 
bis  watch.  It  was  not  four  yet.  If  he  took  the 
evening  train  he  could  be  with  her  to-morrow. 

".And  why  should  I  not  ?  "  he  asked  him- 
self;  "  if  she  really  likes  me,  ought  I  not  mar- 
ry a  woman  who  has  suffered  so  severely  for 
my  sake  ?  And  if  she  does  not — ought  I  not 
know  it,  and  be  free  in  conscience  and  honor, 
as  I  am  in  fact  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  was  no  less  prompt  to  act 
on  his  resolve,  than  Dora  had  been  to  follow 


up  hers.     He  left  that  night,  and  was  the  next 
day  in  London. 

Dora's  first  act,  on  returning  to  Madame 
Bertrand's  rooms,  had  been  to  write  to  u 
widowed  lady  in  reduced  circumstances,  and 
ask  whether  she  would  receive  her.  The  re- 
ply had  come  that  Mrs.  Robinson  no  longer 
took  in  lodgers,  but  that  she  would  accommo- 
date- Mrs.  and  Miss  Courtenay  for  a  time. 
Thus,  on  arriving  at  the  station  the  two  ladies 
had  but  to  take  a  cab  and  drive  through  well- 
remembered  streets,  now  wearing  a  strange 
look,  after  the  absence  of  a  year,  to  that  quiet 
terrace  with  a  garden  wall  in  front,  and  nod- 
ding trees,  where  Mrs.  Robinson  resided.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  had  been  very  ill  at  sea,  and  she  re- 
tired to  her  room  almost  at  once.  Dora  sat 
in  the  front  parlor,  sad,  but  calm,  because  her 
fate,  as  she  considered  it,  was  now  irrevocable. 
She  had  placed  it,  as  she  thought,  beyond  the 
reach  of  her  own  will,  and  she  blest  Heaven 
that  she  had  had  strength  to  do  so. 

The  day  was  now  nearly  worn,  the  gray 
EngUsh  twilight  was  setting  in,  and  she  was 
looking  at  the  trees  before  her,  seeing  them 
not — seeing  in  their  stead  a  gray  old  church, 
with  lilies  gi-owing  midst  its  buttresses,  and  all 
in  a  flame  with  the  red  light  of  a  rich  sunset, 
when  a  tap  at  the  door  roused  her.  A  demure 
parlor-maid  looked  in,  and  merely  saying, 
"  Please,  Miss,  Mr.  Templemore  wishes  to  speak 
to  you,"  she  showed  him  in,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  cab  that  had  brought  him  had  put  him 
down  at  the  corner  of  the  terrace  ;  he  had  not 
knocked  at  the  door,  but  rung,  that  she  might 
have  no  warning ;  and  now  he  stood  before 
her,  as  if  called  up  by  that  vision  in  which  she 
had  been  indulging. 

She  rose  and  faced  him,  pale  and  trem- 
bling. It  is  dreadful  to  be  forever  strug- 
gling. Strength  and  courage  may  well  fail 
us ;  well  may  we  quail  when  the  battle  is 
perpetual,  and  never  won.     With  a  sort  of 


200 


DORA. 


despair,  Dora  felt  her  heart  going  away  from 
her,  rushing  back  to  its  old  servitude.  She 
rebelled,  she  tried  to  brave  this  cruel  subjec- 
tion— one  of  the  most  humbling  a  proud 
woman  can  feel,  and  in  that  first  moment,  at 
least,  she  was  powerless.  The  joy  of  hearing 
his  voice,  of  seeing  his  face  again,  was  stronger 
than  either  gill  or  pride. 

"  Am  I  again  going  to  be  conquered  ?  " 
thought  Dora,  with  secret  anguish.  "  Am  I 
again  going  to  do  the  very  thing  I  condemn  ? 
— and  has  he  but  to  appear  in  order  to  prevail 
against  me  ?  " 

She  could  not  bear  the  thought.  Pity  them 
whose  conscience  is  ever  striving  against  in- 
clinations ;  pity  them,  and  if  they  succumb, 
condemn  them  not  lightly.  It  is  something  to 
have  striven  ;  and  the  defeat  which  tells  of  a 
contest  can  never  be  all  ignominious.  Never- 
theless, that  habit  of  self-command  which  is 
at  the  root  of  a  woman's  nature,  came  to 
Dora's  help  in  this  hour  of  need. 

"  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  asked,  calmly, 
though  sadly,  "  is  this  well  ?  " 

"  Miss  Courtenay,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  al- 
low me  to  reciprocate  your  question :  Is  this 
well  ?    Did  you  use  me  well  ?  " 

"Perhaps  not,"  she  said,  with  some  emo- 
tion ;  "  but  I  wished  to  have  it  all  over.  It 
seemed  best." 

He  looked  at  her.  She  had  recovered  her 
composure,  which  his  unexpected  appearance 
had  somewhat  disturbed,  and  she  spoke  very 
quietly.  He  felt  disappointed  and  perplexed. 
Had  Mrs.  Luan  deceived  him?  Surely  he 
would  soon  know. 

"Your  letter  told  me  nothing,"  he  said; 
"  I  come  to  know  your  reasons.  You  cannot 
have  changed  your  mind  so  suddenly  without 
a  reason." 

"  I  have  no  new  reason,"  replied  Dora. 

"  But  you  have  some  old  reason,"  he  per- 
sisted ;  "  some  old  reason,  which  you  had  not 
told  me." 


"  No — none." 

There  was  a  sad  passiveness  in  her  tone, 
that  told  him  nothing  save  that  the  subject 
was  painful  to  her.  He  still  felt  perplexed, 
and  more  irritated  perhaps  than  perplexed. 
He  asked  her  to  hear  him,  and  Dora  raised  no 
opposition.  She  sat  down  by  the  window, 
and  he  sat  facing  her,  watching  every  motion 
of  her  features  as  he  spoke.  He  urged  over 
again  every  argument  for  their  marriage,  and 
against  her  refusal,  which  he  had  already  used 
— but  vainly.  Dora  leaned  back  in  her  chair 
with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  lap,  and  her 
eyes  downcast  or  fixed  on  vacant  space,  and 
with  a  face  as  pale  and  as  changeless  as 
marble.  She  heard  him,  she  did  not  contra- 
dict him  much,  but  she  said  despondently, 
"  No,  Mr.  Templemore,  it  cannot  be." 

"  Then  I  see  what  it  is ! "  he  exclaimed, 
reddening  as  he  spoke,  and  speaking  with  more 
warmth  than  he  was  conscious  of  using — "  you 
have  a  previous  attachment,  and  ^ill  not  tell 
me! " 

Dora  reddened  too,  but  whether  with  re- 
sentment, shame,  or  any  other  feeling,  it  was 
impossible  for  Mr.  Templemore  to  tell. 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  she  answered  ;  "  if  I 
had  any  such  feeling,  I  should  not  be  ashamed 
of  it,  and  I  would  tell  you  at  once." 

"  Then  you  dislike  me  !  "  he  said  with  some 
impetuosity. 

Dora  smiled,  but  simply  answered  :  "  No , 
why  should  I  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  was  confounded.  He  was 
stung  too.  All  his  fond  visions  had  melted 
away,  and  he  only  saw  a  calm,  proud  woman, 
who  did  not  seem  to  care  much  for  him  ;  and 
whom,  spite  her  indifference — alas !  perhaps 
on  account  of  that  indifference — he  could  not 
help  wishing  to  win.  Had  he  hesitated 
whether  he  should  marry  her  or  not,  had  he 
followed  her  thus  far  in  hot  pursuit,  had  he 
pleaded  his  cause  for  the  last  half  hour  with 
every  subtle    and    varied    argument,   to    be 


HE  IS  SUCCESSFUL. 


201 


balked  in  the  end  ?  Mr.  Templemore  was  not 
a  handsome  man,  and  he  knew  it;  but  he 
knew  too  that  woman  is  won  by  the  ear  far 
more  than  by  the  eye ;  and  if  he  had  never 
guessed  that  Dora  loved  him,  he  had  always 
seen  that  she  liked  him.  Again  and  again  he 
had  prevailed  with  her,  made  her  yield  her 
will  to  his,  and  not  quarrel  with  her  sub- 
jection. And  now,  when  he  laid  himself  out 
to  charm,  he  foiled.  When  he  oifcred  her 
position,  wealth,  and  what  he  justly  thought 
most  of,  himself,  he  failed.  He  was  offended, 
he  was  hurt,  but  he  was  allured  too,  and  that 
unexpected  resistance  was  the  last  crowning 
seduction  which  I'endered  Dora  irresistible, 
and  made  him  resolve  not  to  leave  the  room 
till  he  had  conquered. 

"  And  so,"  he  said,  with  a  mixture  of  pathos 
and  anger  in  his  voice,  which  moved  Dora's 
heart — "  so  that  is  your  unalterable  resolve, 
Miss  Courtenay  ?  We  might  be  happy  to- 
gether— we  must  be  wretched  apart.  Think 
of  it  well !  You  condemn  me  to  solitude. 
You  know  I  cannot,  I  will  not  in  honor  marry 
another  woman  whilst  you  live.  I  say  it 
again — you  condemn  me  to  solitude !  " 

He  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the  room  in 
some  agitation ;  but  he  came  back  to  her  as 
•he  uttered  the  last  words,  and  standing  before 
her,  seemed  to  appeal,  more  in  sorrow  than, 
in  wrath,  against  so  harsh  a  sentence.  Dora 
felt  much  disturbed,  but  she  tried  to  say  com- 
posedly : 

"  I  do  not,  Mr.  Templemore.  I  trust,  I  hope 
you  will  marry — as  to  that,  so  may  I !  " 

"  Then  you  do  want  to  marry ! "  he  ex- 
claimed, jealously  ;  "  you  do  want  to  marry  ?  " 

"Why  not,  Mr.  Templemore?"  she  asked, 
lifting  up  her  head  proudly,  for  both  tone  and 
question  offended  her. 

"  Then  why  not  marry  me  ?  "  he  argued  an- 
grily ;  "  you  say  you  have  no  previous  attach- 
ment, why  not  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Because  I  will   never  marry  a  man  who 


marries  me  from  honor,"  replied  Dora,  with 
some  energy.  "I  have  said  it,  Mr.  Temple- 
more, and  nothing  shall  make  me  gainsay  it." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  amazed. 

"  Honor  ! "  he  said,  impatiently ;  "  did  I 
speak  of  honor,  Miss  Courtenay  ?  " 

Dora  felt  troubled.  He  had  not,  indeed, 
urged  that  argument. 

"  You  said  you  could  not  marry  any  other 
woman  in  honor,  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  re- 
plied at  length. 

"Nor  can  I — but  did  I  say  that  I  wished  to 
marry  you  from  honor  ?  On  my  word.  Miss 
Courtenay,"  he  added,  with  sudden  emotion, 
"  it  is  not  honor,  it  is  not  the  wish  to  right 
you  that  brought  me  here  this  evening.  I 
know  all  you  can  urge.  That  a  few  days  ago 
I  was  to  marry  another  woman — I  grant  it ; 
but  I  also  know  this,  that  I  am  here,  and  that, 
as  I  said  before,  it  is  not  honor  that  brings 
me.  It  is  the  wish — the  irresistible  wish  that 
you  should  be  my  wife." 

Involuntary  tenderness  softened  his  voice 
and  look  as  he  uttered  the  word  "  wife  ; "  and 
no  lover's  protestation  could  have  moved 
Dora's  heart  as  that  word  thus  uttered  by  one 
so  dear.  It  comprised  all — every  eloquence, 
every  promise,  every  fond  hope,  every  pledge, 
every  bond.  Without  a  word  of  doubt  or  re- 
sistance, with  her  whole  soul  in  the  act,  she 
placed  her  hand  in  his. 

"And  this  time,"  said  Mr.  Templemore, 
radiant  and  triumphant,  "  I  shall  keep  you  to 
your  promise! " 

"  You  need  not,  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said 
with  the  brightest  smile  he  had  ever  seen  on 
her  bright  face;  "nothing  shall  make  me 
break  it." 

"  Her  aunt  spoke  the  truth,"  thought  Mr 
Templemore  as  he  looked  at  her ;  "  btit  what  a 
strange,  perverse  creature  to  give  me  all  that 
trouble  ! " 

Perverse  or  not,  he  loved  her.  Perverse  or 
not,  he  grudged  not  the  trouble  she  had  cost 


202 


DORA. 


bim — lie  regretted  not  the  strange  turns  of 
fate  which  had  given  him  this  prize.  She  was 
to  him  just  tlien  that  something  exquisite  and 
rare,  which  in  certain  moods  the  best  and  the 
wisest  man  will  purchase,  no  matter  at  what 
cost,  ay,  even  though  the  price  should  be  life- 
long liberty. 

"When  Mrs.  Courtenay,  much  recruited  by  a 
long  nap,  tliought  she  should  like  a  cup  of  tea, 
and  came  down  for  that  purpose,  she  found 
the  tea-things  on  the  parlor  table,  two  candles 
burning  brightly,  and  by  their  light  she  saw 
Mr.  Templemore  looking  perfectly  happy,  and 
her  daughter  as  gay  as  a  lark  on  a  summer 
morning. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

NoTHiMG  occurred  to  delay  the  fate  which 
one  woman's  folly  and  another  woman's  treach- 
ery had  brought  down  on  these  two.  Mr. 
Templemore  wished  for  a  speedy  marriage, 
and  he  had  his  way.  The  morning  on  whicli 
Dora  was  to  become  his  wife  was  fixed,  and  in 
the  mean  while  ho  came  daily  to  see  her.  He 
came  early  and  stayed  late,  and  unless  when 
he  was  with  her,  he  felt  restless  and  unhappy. 
He  did  not  know  himself  what  ailed  him.  He 
seemed  to  be  bewitched.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  before  that  this  girl  was  worth  win- 
ning. He  did  remember  having  admired  her, 
but  he  could  not  now  believe  in  his  past  ad- 
miration—it  seemed  so  cold,  so  dead.  Some- 
times he  had  gleams  of  reason,  and  wondered 
at  himself;  but  they  were  gleams,  and  no 
more.  Tliey  passed  athwart  his  mind  trou- 
bling it,  and  when  they  had  departed,  he  only 
felt  more  strongly  impelled  to  rush  on  this 
fate  before  him.  He  was  like  the  fisherman 
in  the  ballad.  Tlie  very  waters  that  were  to 
devour  him  allured  him  irresistibly.  Perhaps 
he  could  not  help  it.  Perhaps  this  sudden 
and  vehement  passion,  following  on  a  Ion"- 
quiet  love  for  another  woman,  was  the  only 


thing  that  could  save  him  from  the  abhorrence 
of  marrying  a  girl  his  heart  had  not  chosen ; 
even  as  but  for  that  passion  he  could  never 
have  conquered  Dora's  pride  and  won  her  con- 
sent. The  feeling  that  turned  his  sacrifice 
into  sweetness  had  vanquished  all  her  scruples, 
and  changed  their  bitterness  to  strange  joy. 

For,  after  all,  she  could  not  be  blind.  If 
Mrs.  Logan  had  been  loved,  she  was  loved  ten 
times  more.  If  Florence  had  been  dear,  Dora 
was  far  dearer.  He  made  no  professions — 
perhaps  remembering  his  involuntary  infidel- 
ity, he  was  silenced  ;  but  there  is  another  elo- 
quence besides  that  of  language,  and  a  hun- 
dred signs  betrayed  him. 

And  Mr,  Templemore  was  not  more  blind 
than  his  mistress.  He  kept  his  promise  to 
Mrs.  Luan.  He  told  D.ora  nothing ;  he  put 
no  questions,  but  before  two  days  were  over 
he  knew  more  than  Dora's  aunt  had  betrayed, 

Mr.  Templemore  was  too  imaginative  to  be 
a  clear-sighted  man.  He  often  remained  blind 
to  the  plainest  things,  because  he  could  not 
compel  himself  to  see  them  under  their  real 
aspects  ;  but  once  his  penetration  was  awak- 
ened, it  became  quick  and  searching  as  light- 
ning, and  his  very  imagination  coming  to  his 
aid,  it  left  no  recess  unexplored.  A  sudden 
paleness  which  passed  across  her  face  as  he 
recalled  the  past,  and  inflicted  upon  her  the 
sting  of  a  retrospective  pain — who  said  that 
love  was  merciful  'i  The  glow  which  sur- 
rounded it  when  reminded  of  the  time  during 
which  he  came  to  her  as  plain  Doctor  Richard, 
and  other  signs  as  subtle,  but  as  plain,  con- 
vinced him  that  the  poor  struggling  medical 
man  had  been  as  tenderly  loved  as  the  affluent 
gentleman,  and  that  either  had  been  infinitely 
dear  to  Dora's  heart. 

No  man  could  remain  indifierent  to  such  a 
discovery,  least  of  all  a  man  who  had  a  gen- 
erous nature,  and  who  was  himself  very  much 
smitten.  Passion  softened  into  tenderness  as 
he  remembered  all  that  this  now  happy-look- 


DORA  COURTENAY  BECOMES  MRS.  TEMPLEMORE. 


203 


ing  girl  had  eudured  for  his  sake,  and  with 
silent  fervor  he  vowed  to  atone  for  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  past  by  the  love  and  devotion  of 
the  whole  future.  Alas !  how  easy  it  was  to 
Mr.  Templemore  to  keep  that  vow !  How 
swift,  how  invading,  how  all-absorbing  was 
this  new  love  which  had  conquered  the  old, 
and  buried  it  fathoms  deep !  How  is  it  that 
even  fine  and  noble  natures  are  subject  to 
this  lamentable  inconstancy  ?  We  see  it  daily, 
but  who  shall  venture  to  read  a  riddle  so  per- 
plexing !  Of  voluntarily  forsaking  the  woman 
to  whom  he  had  been  pledged  so  long,  for 
any  other  Woman,  Mr.  Templemore  was  in- 
capable ;  but  honor  is  not  love,  and  when  he 
found  how  willing  he  was  to  take  Florence  at 
her  word,  and  how  eager  he  felt  to  do  Dora 
justice,  he  did  not  dare  to  question  his  own 
heart.  Had  his  affection  for  the  one  grown 
cool  since  he  had  known  the  other  ?  Had 
that  irresistible  attraction  which  had  drawn 
him  to  Dora  day  after  day,  made  him  bring 
her  to  his  house,  and  delight  in  her  society, 
been  the  guilty  dawn  of  his  present  lawful 
fondness  ?  It  might  be  so  ;  but  another  ex- 
planation as  plausible,  and  more  soothing  to 
his  conscience  and  his  pride  than  this,  was 
also  possible. 

Mr.  Templemore's  nature  was  one  of  strong 
passions — as,  indeed,  his  countenance  ex- 
pressed plainly;  but  though  he  was  past 
thirty,  though  he  had  been  married  to  one 
woman,  and  pledged  to  another.  Passion  had 
never  had  hor  day,  nor  even  her  hour.  Now 
amongst  the  legends  of  science  is  one  of  his- 
torical truth.  Every  eighty  or  ninety  years 
for  the  last  three  centuries  a  volcanic  isle  has 
risen  in  the  Mediterramean,  near  San  Miguel 
of  the  A9ores.  Flames  and  earthquakes  mark 
its  birth.  As  it  rises  a  burning  stream  flows 
down  its  sterile  peaks  into  the  sea.  When  it 
has  reached  its  full  height  it  remains  motion- 
less for  a  while,  burning  like  a  beacon,  which 
ships  can  see   miles    away ;    then   it   slowly 


sinks  back  again  into  the  deep  waters,  and  a 
faint  wreath  of  smoke  shows  the  spot  where 
it  has  vanished. 

Such  cycles  of  passion  and  fever  there  are 
in  most  human  lives.  Tlie  feeling  may  take 
the  name  of  love,  of  ambition,  nay,  of  devo- 
tion itself — it  matters  not,  forth  it  must  come. 
Mj^dst  catastrophe  and  bitter  throes  it  must 
rise  from  beneath  those  calm  waters  vrhere  it 
lay  so  falsely  sleeping.  This  might  have  been 
Mr.  Templemore's  fate.  He  might  have  been 
destined  to  love  a  woman  passionately  at  a 
certain  time  of  his  hfe,  and  for  good  or  for 
evil,  as  the  future  would  show,  that  woman 
proved  to  be,  not  Florence,  but  Dora.  The 
suddenness  of  this  new  feeling  carried  with  it 
a  sort  of  intoxication,  which  was  both  sweet 
and  dangerous,  and  against  which  it  was  very 
difiBcult  to  guard.  Mr.  Templemore  did  not 
seek  to  do  so ;  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
love  which  there  was  no  law,  human  or  divine, 
to  forbid,  and  which  the  woman  who  inspired 
it  shared  in  all  its  fulness. 

And  thus  the  brief  days  of  the  courtship 
went  by,  and  ended  in  a  marriage  morning 
that  made  Dora  Courtenay  Mr.  Templemore's 
wife. 

When  Dora  alighted  from  the  carriage  that 
brought  her  home,  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
treading  upon  air ;  and  Mr.  Templemore,  as 
he  led  her  in,  looked  as  happy  as  a  man  who 
resolves  to  marry  a  woman  from  honor,  but 
who  has  the  good  fortune  to  fall  desperately 
in  love  with  her,  can  well  look.  That  their 
marriage  was  hurried,  private,  and  contracted 
under  the  ominous  cloud  of  disgrace,  with  no 
kind  friends  gathering  around  them  to  wish 
them  joy,  neither  heeded  in  that  hour.  They 
were  happy,  and  happiness,  we  fear,  is  rather 
a  selfish  feehng.  Still  Dora  had  one  keen 
pang.  Her  aunt  had  promised  to  corae  and 
stay  with  Mrs.  Courtenay,  but  she  had  not 
kept  her  word.  Her  mother  must  remain 
alone,   for  Mr.  Templemore  would  have   his 


204 


DORA. 


honeymoon  to  himself,  and  only  smiled  when 
Mrs.  Coiirtenay  grew  querulous,  and  Dora 
looked  imploring.  He  promised  they  should 
not  long  be  divided,  but  separated  it  was  plain 
they  must  be. 

To  Dora's  great  joy,  therefore,  though  some- 
what to  her  surprise,  Mrs.  Luan  was  found  sit- 
ting in  the  bedroom  up-stairs  when  the  bride 
entered  it  to  change  her  dress. 

"  Oh  !  aunt,  that  is  kind !  "  cried  Dora. 
"  But  why  did  you  not  come  earlier — why  did 
you  not  come  to  see  me  married  ?  " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  at  her ;  never  did  bride 
look  brighter  or  happier  than  Dora,  as  she 
stood  before  her  aunt,  resting  her  two  hands 
on  Mrs.  Luan's  shoulders  and  gazing  down 
with  the  most  radiant  smile  in  her  face. 

"  I  began  to  think  you  did  not  care  about 
me,"  saucily  continued  Dora,  putting  on  a 
frown. 

"Are  you  married  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lyan. 

Dora  laughed  gayly. 

"  Why,  aunt,  this  is  not  my  every-day 
dress — is  it?"  she  asked.  "You  never  saw 
me  in  white  with  orange  flowers  before  to-day 
—did  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  are  you  really  married  ?  "  in- 
sisted Mrs.  Luan. 

Dora  took  off  her  glove  and  showed  the 
wedding-ring  on  her  left  hand. 

"  Now  do  you  believe  it  ?  "  she  a.eked  good- 
humoredly ;  "  besides,  Mr.  Templemore  is  be- 
low, and  if  you  will  but  come  down  you  will 
hear  him  call  me  Mrs.  Templemore.  He  has 
already  done  so  twice ;  and,  aunt,"  she  added, 
in  the  fulness  of  her  joy,  "  I  do  believe  he  is 
as  happy  as  I  am  !  " 

Everything  in  her  betrayed  joy  and  happi- 
ness, not  unmixed  with  triumph.  She  could 
not  help  it.  Some  brides  are  pale  and  tear- 
ful, some  are  dignified,  and  some  arc  simply 
cheerful.  Dora  was  glad,  and  her  gladness, 
which  she  never  thought  of  concealing  from 
her  apathetic  aunt's  eye,  which  she  scarcely 


thought  visible  to  that  cold-blooded  lady,  now 
shone  forth  without  disguise.  With  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, with  her  mother,  even,  she  would 
have  been  more  shy,  but  with  Mrs.  Luan  she 
was  not  on  her  guard,  and  she  looked  as  she 
felt,  the  happiest  of  women.  John  Luan's 
mother  stared  at  her  moodily.  It  was  she 
who  had  parted  Mr.  Templemore  and  Florence 
Gale  ;  it  was  she  who  had  given  the  rich  man 
to  her  poor  niece ;  it  was  she  who  had  stimu- 
lated his  liking  into  passion,  who  had  urged 
him  on  with  the  lure  of  Dora's  love.  She 
had  done  it,  she  felt  no  regret,  and  not  an 
atom  of  repentance,  and  yet  this  happiness 
of  Mr.  Templemore's  wife  irritated  her. 

"  How  dare  Dora  be  glad,  when  she  must 
know  that  her  bliss  would  be  John  Luan's 
grief!    How  dare  she  1 " 

She  could  not  speak  her  resentment,  but 
she  was  untying  her  bonnet-strings,  and  was 
going  to  display  her  wrath  according  to  her 
usual  fashion,  when  Dora  nimbly  took  the 
bonnet  from  her  hands  and  laughingly  put  it 
away. 

"Xo,  aunt,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  allow  it. 
I  made  that  bonnet  myself;  and'  I  cannot 
allow  it.  Besides,  what  is  there  to  put  you 
out  on  a  day  like  this  ?  Look,  I  have  not  for- 
gotten you." 

She  opened  a  jewel-box,  and  produced  a 
handsome  ring,  which  she  slipped  on  Mrs. 
Luan's  finger. 

"  That  is  our  gift,"  she  said,  "  his  as  well 
as  mine ;  I  need  scarcely  tell  you  so,"  she 
added  with  a  smile,  for  the  ring  was  evidently 
an  expensive  one,  "  and  you  must  look  glad, 
aunt." 

A  romantic,  high-minded  woman,  if  she  had 
felt  what  Mrs.  Luan  felt  toward  Mr.  Temple- 
more just  then — namely,  that  he  was  robbing 
her  son  of  his  mistress,  and  making  his  wife 
of  the  very  girl  whom  John  Luan  had  chosen 
years  ago  for  himself — such  a  woman,  we  say, 
would  certainly  have  thrown  the  ring  away, 


DEPARTURE  FOR  NORTH  WALES. 


205 


and  probably  have  made  a  speech.  But  Mrs. 
Luan,  though  she  cared  not  one  farthing  for 
the  gift,  and  bated  the  donor  with  all  the  un- 
reasonable hate  of  a  wrong-doer,  who  wants 
to  vent  on  some  one  the  resentment  due  to 
her  own  deeds,  was  neither  romantic  nor 
high-minded.  She  only  looked  angry  and 
sulky. 

"  Aunt,  what  ails  you  ?  "  asked  Dora. 

"  What  will  John  say  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Luan  in  her  turn. 

Dora's  color  fled  at  the  question. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  John,"  she  faltered — "  very 
sorry,  aunt." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  to  live  ?  "  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Luan,  changing  her  theme. 
"Here?" 

Dora  smiled. 

"  Oh  !  aunt,  what  a  question  !  "  she  said 
gayly ;  "  is  Mr.  Templemore  going  to  live  in 
an  eight-roomed  house  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  where  is  it  ?  " — persisted  Mrs. 
Luan — "  in  what  square  ?  " 

"  In  no  square  at  all,"  replied  Dora,  still 
amused.  "Do  you  think,  aunt,  Mr.  Temple- 
more  has  a  house  everywhere  ?  He  has  but 
one  of  his  own  that  I  know  of — the  house  to 
which  we  are  going — and  that  is  Deenah  !  " 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  up  with  sudden  interest. 

"  Then  you  are  going  away  ?  "  she  said. 

"Ay,  surely,  after  breakfast;  and  that  is 
why,  aunt,  I  am  so  glad  and  so  grateful,  too, 
for  your  coming.  Poor  mamma  will  not  be 
left  alone." 

"  And  you  will  cross  over  to-day,"  continued 
Mrs.  Luan — "  this  very  day  you  will  be  in  Ire- 
land ?  " 

"No,  Mr.  Templemore  wants  to  show  me 
North  Wales.  I  do  not  know  when  we  shall 
reach  Deenah." 

She  looked  in  some  perplexity  at  her  aunt. 
She  could  not  understand  why  this  journey 
seemed  to  interest  Mrs.  Luan  so  much,  that 
her  face  had  cleared  and  brightened  the  mo- 


ment Dora  had  mentioned  it.  But  it  was  so- 
Mrs.  Luan  looked  quite  brisk  and  cheerful 
now,  and  said  that  she  would  go  down ;  and 
so  she  did,  leaving  Dora  rather  grave  and 
pensive. 

Mr.  Templemore  was  alone  in  the  front 
parlor  waiting  for  his  wife^  when  the  lock 
turned,  and  the  door  opened.  He  thought 
it  was  Dora,  and  with  that  impulse  which 
prompts  us  to  go  and  meet  whatever  we  love, 
he  moved  toward  the  door.  When  he  saw 
Mrs.  Luan's  clumsy  figure  and  sallow  face,  he 
almost  stepped  back,  so  unpleasant  was  the 
surprise.  A  feeling  which  could  not  be  a 
presentiment,  for  it  came  too  late,  but  which 
certainly  partook  of  repulsion  and  dislike,  sud- 
denly rose  within  him» 

"I  must  get  that  woman's  son  some  ap- 
pointment or  other,"  he  thought;  "and  she 
must  leave  Les  Roches.  I  will  not  have  her 
near  Eva." 

He  had  not  time  to  linger  over  the  feeling. 
Dora,  who  had  quickly  changed  her  dress,  now 
entered  the  room,  no  more  a  bride,  but  a  wife ; 
and  with  her  came  Mrs.  Courtenay,  who,  in 
doleful  and  hysterical  tones,  informed  them 
that  breakfast  was  ready. 

The  meal  was  not  a  cheerful  one ;  it  was 
soon  over.  Mrs.  Luan's  presence  seemed  to 
Mr.  Templemore  to  have  brought  a  funereal 
gloom  with  it.  He  was  eager  to  be  goue,  and 
pleaded  that  they  would  be  late  for  the  train 
if  they  did  not  depart  at  once. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  heaved  several  deep  sighs, 
and  could  not  help  remarking : 

"  I  must  say,  Mr.  Templemore,  that  it  is  a 
very  barbarous  fashion  to  take  away  girls  so — 
it  is  like  kidnapping  to  me.  Or  a  taking  away 
of  the  Sabines,  or  anything  horrible." 

"  But  Dora  is  willing,"  pleaded  Mr.  Temple- 
more, good-humoredly ;  "  so  that  makes  a 
great  diflference,  Mrs.  Courtenay,  between  me 
and  the  sons  of  Romulus." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  sighed  again,  but  submitted. 


206 


DORA. 


She,  even  went  through  the  trying  ordeal  of 
bidding  her  daughter  farewell,  with  a  fortitude 
for  which  Mr.  Templeniore,  who  was  watching 
Dora's  quivering  lip  with  some  uneasiness,  was 
grateful  to  his  mother-in-law.  And  when  he 
pressed  her  hand  and  bade  her  adieu  before 
entering  the  carriage  where  Dora  was  waiting, 
he  said  warmly : 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Courtenay,  you  shall  soon 
see  vour  daughter  atrain,  and  she  shall  tell  you 
then,  that  if  I  take  her  from  you  it  is  to  make 
her  a  very  happy  woman." 

With  these  words,  he,  too,  was  gone;  the 
carriage  drove  away,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  burst 
into  half-angry,  half-pitiful  tears. 

"  I  never  knew  anything  so  selfish  as  men !  " 
she  exclaimed,  addressing  Mrs.  Luan.  "  To 
think  of  Mr.  Templemorc  taking  my  child  from 
me  in  order  to  make  her  happy!  Could  he 
not  have  stayed  here — Mrs.  Robinson  would 
have  given  up  the  house — or  taken  me  with 
them  to  North  Wales  ?  Why,"  she  continued, 
warming  with  the  sense  of  her  wrongs,  and 
rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  her  chair — "  why 
must  he  have  Dora  all  to  himself?  I  say  he 
is  no  better  than  Romulus.  As  to  Dora  being 
willing,  I  dare  say  those  Sabine  girls  were  will- 
ing too,  or  they  could  not  have  been  taken 
awa}-.  I  have  always  heard,  indeed,  that 
thieves  are  loth  to  attack  women,  because 
they  scream  so.  I  wonder  Mr.  Templemore 
could  be  so  absurd  ! " 

Thsi  consciousness  of  Mr.  Templemore's  ab- 
Eurditj',  however,  had  one  good  result ;  it  so 
far  soothed  Mrs.  Courtenay's  irritated  feelings, 
that  her  next  remark  could  refer  to  the  pro- 
priety of  making  a  cold  dinner  on  the  remains 
of  the  wedding  breakfast.  Great  was  her 
amazement,  therefore,  when  Mrs.  Luan  com- 
posedly declared  that  she  did  not  intend  dining 
with  her  sister-in-law. 

"And  where,  then,  do  you  dine?"  asked 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  sitting  up,  and  looking  con- 
founded. 


Mrs.  Luan  answered  that  she  meant  to  dine 
with  Mrs.  Smith.  With  this  lady  Mrs  Cour- 
tenay had  long  entertained  a  deadly  feud, 
and  she,  therefore,  considered  this  declaration 
doubly  insulting.  Moreover,  it  was  simply  ri- 
diculous, as  she  kindly  added,  "  for  how  could 
Mrs.  Luan  want  to  dine  with  Mrs.  Smith,  when 
she  had  not  been  two  hours  in  London  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Luan,  in  her  stolid  way,  replied 
that  she  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Smith's  first ;  and 
she  completed  the  list  of  her  iniquities  by  add- 
ing that,  as  Mrs.  Smith  had  a  spare  bedroom, 
she  meant  to  stay  with  that  lady.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  seldom  got  in  a  passion,  but  she 
felt  fairly  enraged  at  such  usage,  and  she 
expressed  her  resentment  with  a  warmth 
which  might  have  led  to  a  final  breach  be- 
tween the  two  ladies,  if  Mrs.  Luan  had  been  a 
sensitive  person,  which  she  luckily  was  not. 
Unmoved  by  her  sister-in-law's  reproaches  and 
tears,  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  left  her. 

Mrs.  Smith  used  to  Jive  at  Highgate,  but  she 
,had  probably  changed  her  quarters,  for  Mrs. 
Luan  took  the  Tottenham-Court  Road  omni- 
bus, and  having  reached  Bedford  Square, 
knocked  at  the  door  of  one  of  its  many  lodg- 
ing-houses, was  admitted  by  an  untidy  servant, 
and  entering  the  front  parlor,  found  John 
Luan  there,  reading  the  Lancet. 

"  Wliy,  little  mother,  where  have  you  been 
all  this  time?"  he  asked,  good-humoredly. 
"  I  came  in  early,  just  to  spend  an  hour  with 
you,  and,  lo  an^  behold,  you,  the  bird  was 
flown !  " 

"  I  went  to  take  a  walk,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan, 
sitting  down — "  why,  you  are  pale,  John,"  she 
abruptly  added. 

"  Pale  !  "  he  echoed,  with  a  hearty  laugh, 
which  showed,  at  least,  the  soundness  of  his 
lungs — "  pale,  little  mother ! — why,  surely  you 
do  not  call  me  pale  ?  "  he  added,  walking  up 
to  a  low  looking-glass  above  the  mantel-piece, 
and  surveying  thereiu  his  florid,  handsome 
face  with  that  candid  admiration  which  most 


JOHN  LUAN. 


207 


handsome  young  men  feel  for  their  own  good 
looks. 

Perhaps  seeing  him  so  gay  and  happy 
smote  her — perhaps  the  knowledge  of  the 
wrong  she  had  helped  to  do  him  was  too  much 
for  her ;  at  all  events,  Mrs.  Luan  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  Dora,  Mr.  Templemore's 
happy  wife,  and  to  look  at  her  son,  whom 
that  day  had  robbed  forever  of  his  dear  young 
mistress.  She  flung  herself  on  the  sofa,  and 
burst  into  sobs  and  tears.  Now,  indeed,  John 
Luan  was  pale — ^pale  as  death. 

"  You  have  had  a  letter  ?  "  he  said^ — "  news 
— bad  news  ! "  And  he  bent  over  her  with  an 
eager,  questioning  gaze,  that  seemed  as  if  it 
would  have  snatched  and  devoured  the  very 
words  from  her  lips. 

"No,"  sulkily  replied  Mrs.  Luan,  recover- 
ing her  self-possession,  and  sitting  up. 

"  Then,  in  Heaven's  name,  what  is  it  ?  " 
asked  John,  still  anxious. 

"I  saw  a  child  run  over,"  she  stolidly  an- 
swered, 

John  Luan  looked  profoundly  indifferent. 

"  That,"  he  said,  coolly,  "  is  an  every-day 
matter  in  London.  I  thought  you  had  better' 
nerves,  little  pother.  I  wonder  Dora  does 
not  write,"  he  added,  a  little  impatiently ; 
"  you  have  been  here  three  days,  and  I  think 
she  might  have  written." 

Mrs.  Luan  replied  Ihat  Dora  had  no  time — 
Eva  took  all  her  leisure. 

"  Well,  well,"  good  -  humoredly  rejoined 
John,  "  I  trust  she  will  not  long  be  a  govern- 
■  ess — I  am  almost  sure  of  that  appointment, 
and — and  I'll  marry  Dora  as-  soon  as  I  get 
it." 

He  looked  at  his  mother  rather  doubtfully. 
He  knew,  though  a  word  on  that  subject  had 
never  passed  between  them,  that  since  the 
loss  of  Dora's  fortune,  she  was  no  longer  a 
daughter-in-law  after  Mrs.  Luan's  own  heart. 
But  this  was  a  matter  in  which  John  was 
quite  resolved  on  having  his  own  wav,  and  he 


thought  the  present  opportunity  as  good  a  one 
as  any  to  announce  his  determination. 

"  You  can't  marry,"  eagerly '  said  Mrs. 
Luan ;  "  you  are  first  cousins." 

"  Come,  come,  little  mother,  kings  and 
queens  marry  their  first  cousins,  and  why 
should  not  doctors  have  the  same  privilege  ?  " 

"You  can't  afford  it,"' urged  Mrs.  Luan, 
shaking  with  emotion  ;  "  you  can't,  John." 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  he  wilfully  replied  ;  "  I  tell 
you,  I  am  almost  sure  'of  that  appointment. 
The  place  is  pretty,  and  the  cottage  simply 
delightful.  You  and  Mi-s.' Courtenay  shall 
have  two  such  nice  rooms,  little  mother.  And 
Dora  and  I  another,  not  so  good  as  yours,  but 
quite  good  enough  for  young  people..  Then 
the  parlors  arc  so  cheerful,  and  the  garden  is 
one  mass  of  flowers ;  and  do  you  think  that 
being  rent  free,  and  having  a  hundred  a  year 
salary,  besides  such  practice  as  I  shall  be 
sure  to  come  into — do  you  think,  I  say,  that 
I,  a  man  of  twenty-six,  cannot  support  wife, 
mother,  ay,  and  child  too,  if  need  be,"  he 
added,  with  a  secure  smile,  though  something 
in  the  bright  vision  he  thus  called  up  made 
his  blue  eye  grow  dim  as  he  spoke. 

Dream  away,  John  Luan  !  See  that  cot- 
tage with  its  low,  pleasant  rooms,  and  its 
blooming  garden,  and  put  Dora  there,  whilst 
the  dream  is  on  you.  Never,  save  in  that 
dream,  shall  her  feet  cross  that  lowly  thresh- 
old ;  never  shall  child  of  yours  r*est  on  her 
bosom,  save  in  the  fancy  of  this  moment. 
Even  now,  and  whilst  you  are  speaking,  her 
hand  is  clasped  in  Mr.  Templemore's  hand, 
and  her  happy  face  looks  up  to  his.  These 
two  are  now  taking  together  that  journey  of 
love  to  end  in  a  happy  home,  for  which  you 
have  saved  twenty  pounds.  "  Yes,  we  can 
do  it  upon  that,"  thinks  John  Luan  ;  and  he 
does  not  know  that  the  rich  man  lias  robbed 
him,  and  that  the  w  oman  who  sits  by  his  side 
and  looks  at  him  with  so  scared  a  flice,  has 
more  than  abetted  the  de?poiler.     But  for  her 


208 


DORA. 


his  prize  would  have  remained  untouched,  and 
not  be  now  another  man's  darling ;  but  for  her 
he  would  have  Lad  his  chance  and  won,  per- 
haps from  sad  weariness,  what  that  other  hap- 
pier man  owes  to  love. 

"  So  you  see,"  resumed  John  Luan,  follow- 
ing aloud  the  train  of  his  reverie,  and  still 
thinking  of  the  twenty-pound  note  up-stairs,  so 
safely  locked  in  his  desk—"  so  you  see,  little 
mother,  that  I  have  plenty  of  money.  Dear  Do- 
ra, I  know,  will  never  grumble  at  our  poyerty." 

A  light  seemed  to  break  on  Mrs.  Luan's 
mind.  She  seized  it  eagerly.  She  did  not  re- 
pent, she  felt  no  remorse,  but  it  would  be  a 
relief  if  Dora  had  been  faithless  and  perjured 
herself. 

"  Then  she  promised  ? "  she  exclaimed, 
clinching  her  hands  ;  "  she  did  promise  ! " 

"  Promise  to  marry  me ! "  repeated  John  ; 
"  what  if  she  did  ?  " 

"  How  dare  she  ! — how  dare  she  ! "  cried 
Mrs.  Luan,  working  herself  up  to  a  sort  of 
frenzy  ;  "  how  dare  she  do  it  ?  " 

"  Come,  mother,  "  resolutely  said  John, 
"  you  must  not  talk  so.  Dora  and  I  have  a 
right  to  please  ourselves  in  this.  Your  only 
objection  is  her  poverty — well,  then,  I  say  I 
can  support  a  wife." 

"  Byt  bow  dare  she  promise  ?  "  continued 
Mrs.  Luan,  stamping  her  foot  in  her  rage ; 
"  how  dare  she  ?  " 

John  had  a  mind  to  say  the  truth — that 
Dora  had  not  promised.  "But  if  I  tell  her 
tliat,"  he  thought,  "  it  will  be  all  to  begin 
over  again  another  time,  better  she  should 
make  up  her  mind  to  it  now." 

If  Mrs.  Luan's  anger  had  not  been  too  great 
for  utterance,  she  would  in  her  wrath  have 
told  John  Luan  that  Dora  had  that  very  morn- 
ing become  Mr.  Templemorc's  wife  ;  but  by 
the  time  that  her  rage  no  longer  impeded  her 
speech,  she  remembered  that  if  she  spoke  she 
must  account  for  her  own  treacherous  silence 
—and  she  was  mute. 


She  looked  sullen  and  conquered.  John 
felt  rather  uncomfortable,  but  putting  on  a 
cheerful  look,  he  kissed  her,  said  briskly  it 
was  time  for  him  to  go,  and  humming  a  tune 
to  show  how  unconcerned  he  felt,  he  walked 
out  of  the  house,  and  thought  when  he  got  out 
into  the  square,  "She  took  it  better  than  I 
expected. " 

The  door  had  no  sooner  closed  on  her 
son,  than  Mrs.  Luan's  frenzy  broke  forth 
anew. 

"  She  promised — she  dared  to  promise  ! " 
she  said,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro  on  the  sofa. 
And  every  fond  word  and  look  of  John  Luan's, 
every  happy  blush  and  smile  of  Dora's  that 
morning,  every  sign  of  love  she  had  read  on 
Mr.  Templemore's  face,  came  back  to  her  then, 
and  exasperated  her.  She  had  wanted  to  saVe 
her  son,  but  Dora  had  betrayed  and  Mr.  Teni- 
plemore  had  plundered  him.  She  thought  of 
his  jealousy  and  grief  if  he  had  known  that  this 
was  their  wedding-day,  and  the  thought  ap- 
palled her,  and  filled  her  with  wrath  for  their 
happiness  and  his  despair.  How  dare  they 
be  blessed  at  what  would  wring  her  son's  heart 
within  him  ?  "  Let  them  take  care,  that's  all ! " 
thought  Mrs.  Luan,  as  she  sullenly  calmed 
down.  "  They  are  happy  to-day  ;  but  let  them 
take  care,  that's  all  ! "  she  added,  nodding 
grimly. 

She  did  not  question  John  when  he  came  in 
to  dinner.  She  did  not  ask  to  know  how  and 
when  Dora's  promise  had  been  given.  Mrs. 
Luan  wanted  to  know  nothing  ;  she  had  moved 
the  intolerable  burden  of  guilt  from  her  own 
shoulders  to  that  of  another,  and  perhaps  she 
dreaded  whatever  could  enlighten  her. 

John,  who  was  an  arrant  domestic  coward, 
felt  much  relieved  at  his  mother's  siience,  and 
like  most  cowards  of  his  sex  on  such  occa- 
sions, he  took  some  glory  in  it. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  pluck, "  he  thought 
complacently  ;  "  women  like  it,  and  they  need 
the   strong  hand,    the  best  of  them.     Your 


MES.   TEMPLEMOEE'S  HAPPINESS. 


209 


health,  little  mother,  "  he  added  gayly,  lifting 
up  his  glass  and  drinking  to  her. 

Mrs.  Luan  said  nothing,  but  turned  sallow, 
and  looked  at  him  coldly ;  it  was  as  if,  gifted 
with  second  sight,  she  had  seen  Mr.  Temple- 
more  that  very  same  moment  raising  his  glass 
to  Dora  with  the  same  act,  and  saying  with 
mingled  pride  and  fondness,  "Your  health, 
Mrs.  Templemore." 

"  My  little  mother  has  not  got  over  it  yet," 
thought  John ;  and  he  prudently  walked  out 
into  the  square  to  smoke  a  cigar.  "  But  she 
•will,"  he  continued  in  his  mental  soliloquy, 
"  because  she  must.  I  say  it  again,  the  best 
of  them  need  it — their  nature  requires  subjec- 
tion. Even  my  little  Dora,  good  as  she  is,  has 
a  saucy  tongue  at  times,  and  needs  control !  " 

And  then,  as  he  walked  slowly  in  the  dusty 
square,  and  looked  dreamily  at  the  stars  that 
came  out  in  the  dull  London  sky,  he  again 
went  to  the  cottage,  and  there  indulged  him- 
self in  a  conjugal  quarrel  with  Dora,  which 
ended  happily  with  a  reconciling  kiss,  and  of 
course  with  the  assertion  of  John  Luan's  man- 
liness, and  of  Mrs.  Luan's  wifely  subjection. 

Alas,  poor  John,  your  Uttle  Dora  has  already 
found  her  master ! 


CHAPTEK  XXXVni. 

There  is  a  cruel  superstition  among  sailors. 
K  one  of  the  crew  should  fall  overboard  and 
be  drowned  at  the  beginning  of  the  voyage,  it 
is  a  pity,  to  be  sure,  but  then  it  is  also  a  sure 
token  that  the  weather  will  be  fair,  and  the 
journey  prosperous.  That  ship  can  never  be 
wrecked  which  has  witnessed  such  a  catas- 
trophe. 

Even  so  it  seemed  to  be  with  Mr.  Temple- 
more  and  his  wife.  Death  had  taken  her 
brother,  and  a  stormy  wave  removed  his  be- 
trothed from  their  ken,  whilst  John  Luan  went 

adrift  all  unconsciously;  and  now  their  two 
14 


barks  could  sail  side  by  side  on  smooth  seas, 
beneath  a  serene  sky,  with  the  gentlest  winds 
to  speed  them. 

Did  they  think  of  this  as  they  entered  Dee- 
nah  together  ?  Oh  !  for  the  mutability  of  the 
human  heart !  The  woman  for  whom  Mr. 
Templemore  had  prepared  that  home  was  now 
forgotten,  and  as  he  had  given  every  passion- 
ate emotion  of  his  heart  to  that  bright-haired 
girl  by  his  side,  so  had  she  surrendered  her 
whole  love  to  the  happy  rival  of  her  own 
adored  brother.  Yes,  spite  all  the  wrecks  and 
ruins  of  the  past,  spite  its  sorrows,  and  a 
lonely  grave,  they  were  blest.  Dora  felt  it  as 
they  walked  through  the  grounds,  a^d  she  saw 
the  sky,  the  mountains,  the  woodlands,  all  in  a 
flame  with  the  burning  radiance  from  the  west, 
whilst  the  whole  house  glittered  afar  like  a 
fairy  palace,  in  the  hazy  glow  of  the  setting  sun. 
She  felt  it  as  they  passed  beneath  aged  trees, 
through  the  waving  gi-ass,  and  the  blackbird 
and  the  thrush  sang  so  sweetly  above  them. 
She  felt  it  as  they  entered  the  house  together, 
and  she  stood  in  a  large,  bright  room,  with 
pictures,  and  flowers,  and  books,  a  luxurious 
room,  but  also  a  genial  one,  made  to  live  in, 
and  which  seemed  to  echo  her  husband's  wel- 
come. 

Mr.  Templemore  watched  Dora's  eyes  as  they 
scanned  this  room,  half  shyly,  half  freely.  He 
saw  her  look  wander  from  a  large  view  of 
Venice  on  the  walls,  to  a^ldwing  sketch  of  the 
Eastern  desert,  and  thence  again  to  the  exotic 
flowers  blooming  in  one  of  the  windows,  be- 
yond which  spread  a  grand  view  of  heathy 
mountains. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said,  gently  drawing  her  tow- 
ard him. 

"  "Well,"  she  rephed,  Ipoking  up  at  him  with 
proud  humiUty,  "King  Cophetua  has  married 
the  beggar-maid." 

"  I  hope  she  had  brown  hair  and  fine  eyes," 
he  replied,  with  tender  admiration. 

Dora  shook  her  bright  head,  and  the  eyes 


210 


DOEA. 


which  her  husband  praised,  and  which  were 
indeed  very  fine  eves,  took  a  tender  and  wist- 
ful look  as  she  replied  demurely : 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that ;  but  this  I 
surely  know — that  beggar-maid  was  a  very 
happy  -woman ! " 

Yes,  she  was  a  happy  woman,  and  as  wedded 
bliss  rarely  wanes  during  the  first  week  of  the 
honeymoon,  it  is  no  great  wonder  that  Dora's 
little  planet  of  love  and  happiness  was  still  in 
the  ascendant  a  fortnight  after  her  marriage. 
Mr.  Templemore  was  out,  though  it  was  early, 
and  Dora  was  alone.  The  morning  was  bright, 
and  she  felt  as  bright  and  as  gay  as  the  morn- 
ing. With  a  sweet  clear  voice  she  sang  aloud 
tohei'self  as  she  went  through  the^sunlit  rooms 
of  Deenah.  She  sang  an  old  Irish  song,  full  of 
sorrow,  but  her  heart  was  light.  Suddenly  she 
was  mute.  She  had  heedlessly  entered  a  room 
where  dark  blinds  shut  out  the  light,  where  the 
air  felt  chill,  and  her  heart  failed  her  as  she 
recognized  Mr.  Courtenay's  collection. 

Dora  had  visited  this  apartment  since  her 
arrival  in  Deenah,  but  she  had  seen  it  with 
her  husband ;  alone  she  had  not  ventured 
within  it,  and,  now  that  she  had  crossed  its 
threshold,  she  knew  not  how  to  retreat  or  ad- 
vance. Her  heart  beat,  her  head  swam ;  a 
chair  -was  near  her,  she  sank  down  upon  it, 
and  looked  around  her.  Every  country  and 
every  civilization,  Christian  and  heathen,  had 
contributed  to  Mr.  Cdiirtenay's  collection;  the 
history  of  mankind  was  in  all  that  Dora  saw, 
but  she  only  read  in  it  the  story  of  her  brother. 
Her  eye  wandered  from  one  end  of  the  room 
to  the  other.  Specimens  of  Palissy,  MajoHca, 
Etruscan,  mediajval,  and  antique,  were  there 
before  her,  some  perched  aloft  on  marble 
columns,  others  more  precious  in  black  cabi- 
nets, with  glass  fronts  and  brass  locks.  Here 
and  there  a  gold  or  silver  cup  shone,  or  a 
piece  of  carved  ivory  gleamed  faintly ;  and 
Dora,  lo(jking  at  these  things,  saw  herself  a 
girl  again  in  her  old  home  near  Dublin.     She 


saw  herself  sitting  up  for  Paul,  and  preparing 
a  meal  for  his  return.  And  she  saw  him  too  ! 
She  heard  his  voice,  she  sat  at  his  feet  and 
looked  up  in  his  face,  on  which  the  firelight 
shone  ;  but  the  bitterness  of  these  recollections 
was  too  much  for  her.  Dora  buried  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  wept.  When,  by  a  strong 
effort,  she  at  length  compelled  her  tears  to 
cease,  and  looked,  up,  she  saw  Mr.  Temple- 
more  standing  before  her  with  a  letter  in  his 
hand,  and  eying  her  thoughtfully. 

She  reddened  as  she  rose,  and  went  up  to 
him  with  some  embarrassment. 

"  I  could  not  help  it,"  she  said,  depreca- 
tingly,  "  I  could  not,  indeed.  I  entered  this 
room  unexpectedly,  and  everything  I  saw  was 
too  much  for  me ! " 

Her  quivering  lii^  showed  him  that  her  emo- 
tion was  not  over. 

"  How  much  you  loved  your  brother ! "  he 
said,  gently. 

"  Much  ! — oh  !  Richard,  the  word  is  cold  ; 
he  was  everything  to  me." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  have  quite  forgiven  me, 
Dora  ?  "  he  gravely  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  in  some  wonder. 

"  Forgiven  you,  Richard  ! — if  I  had  Paul's 
death  to  forgive  you,  it  would  have  been  easier 
for  me  to  die  than  to  enter  this  house  as  your 
wife.  Forgive  that !  "  she  impetuously  added 
— "  I  fear  I  could  not.  I  fear  I  never  forgave 
Mr.  Courtenay,  who  lured  my  brother,  and 
Florence  Gale,  who  urged  him  on,  till  he  died 
of  the  anxiety,  the  labor,  the  suspensCj  and, 
last  of  all,  the  disappointment  these  two  in- 
flicted upon  him.  She  would  have  been  his 
wife  if  he  had  won  the  day,  but  he  had  scarcely 
lost  it  when  she  married  another.  Perhaps 
you  did  not  know  this,"  she  continued,  seeing 
the  look  of  surprise  that  passed  across  Mr. 
Tcraplemore's  face,  "  and  perhaps  I  should 
not  have  told  you ;  but  it  is  true.  She  was 
faithless  to  him,  and  though,  if  I  am  your 
wife,  it  is  her  doing,  not  mine,  I  cannot  help 


MRS.   COURTENAY'S   LETTER. 


211 


feeling  that  I  am  Paul  Courtcnay's  sister,  and 
that  all  unconsciously  and  unwilliugly  I  have 
avenged  bim.  I  have  stiivcn  against  the  feel- 
ing again  and  again,  and  again  it  has  come 
back,  and  been  too  strong  for  me." 

She  was  very  pale,  and  she  shook  from  head 
to  foot  as  she  uttered  this  resentful  confes- 
sion ;  but  Mr.  Teraplemore  only  kissed  her 
soothingly,  and  smiled  as  he  led  her  out  of 
the  room,  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 
He  could  read  Dora's  heart  better  than  she 
read  it  herself,  and  he  saw  there  more  jealous 
fondness  of  a  living  husband  than  angry 
memory  of  a  dead  brother's  wrongs.  The 
greatest  sin  of  Florence  Gale  was  ever  to  have 
been  loved  by  him.  This  Dora  never  could 
forgive,  and  never  could  she  cease  triumphing 
in  her  heart  over  her  defeated  rival.  She 
might,  being  a  generous  woman,  strive  against 
the  feeling ;  but,  whilst  she  loved  her  husband, 
jealousy  would  be  too  much  for  her,  and  she 
would  strive  in  vain.  It  is  not  in  a  man's  na- 
ture to  be  severe  against  such  sins,  and  Mr. 
Tetnplemore  felt  wonderfully  lenient  on  hear- 
ing Dora  confess  her  triumph  over  Mrs.  Logan. 
He  was  not  so  vain,  moreover,  as  to  consider 
that  lady  plunged  in  irremediable  grief  for  his 
sake,  and  he  could  not  help  thinking  that,  as  he 
had  had  predecessors  in  her  heart,  so  might  he 
have  a  successor  there  too.  But  as  he  needed 
no  protestations  from  Dora  to  convince  him 
that  he  was  her  first  love,  so  he  required  no 
vows  to  feel  certain  that  no  other  image 
would  replace  his  in  her  heart.  He  had  knowji 
in  his  boyhood  a  white-haired  woman,  bright, 
gay,  and  cheerful,  who  had  been  three  weeks 
a  bride  and  fifty  years  a  widow.  She  was 
witty  and  lovely,  and  was  admired  even  to  the 
brink  of  age ;  but  none  of  her  lovers — and 
they  were  many — could  ever  win  her.  Her 
young  love  had  outlived  both  grief  and  youth. 
And  as  Mr.  Templcmore  looked  at  his  wife's 
pale  face — as  he  heard  her  boast  with  invol- 
untary frankness  of  her  triumph  over  Flor- 


ence— as  ho  took  her  away  witli  a  smile  from 
the  dai'k  room  which  had  evoked  all  this, 
dovm  to  the  cheerful  room  below,  he  thought : 
"  Dora  is  such  another  woman  as  my  great- 
aunt  ;  if  I  were  to  die  to-morrow,  and  she  to 
live  till  threescore,  I  should  still,  dead  or 
living,  be  her  husband."  And  we  need  not 
wonder  that,  if  Mr.  Templemore  was  not  so 
inexperienced  or  so  exacting  as  to  expect  this 
exclusive  aSbction,  which  is  not,  indeed,  a 
very  common  sort  of  thing,  yet  he  was  not 
either  so  careless  or  so  cold  as  hot  to  feel 
mingled  joy  and  pride  in  having  inspired  it. 
Never,  therefore,  could  his  wife  have  read 
more  kindness  in  his  looks  than  she  could 
have  read  then — never  could  she  have  found 
more  boundless  indulgence  for  her  imperfec- 
tions than  such  as  he  was  now  willing  to  ex- 
tend to  her  for  this  venial  sin  of  loving  him 
too  fondly. 

"  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Eva  this  morn- 
ing," he  said,  as  they  sat  down  on  the  sofa; 
"  she  mentions  Mrs.  Courtenay's  safe  arrival 
in  Les  Roches,  with  Mrs.  Luan,  I  believe,  and 
here  is,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Courtenay's  own  letter." 

He  handed  it  to  her,  but  she  gave  it  back 
►to  him. 

"  Read  it  to  me,"  she  said ;  "  you  will  not  be 
vexed  if  mamma  says  you  took  me  away  from 
her,  like  one  of  the  Sabine  maidens  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  smiled  and  obeyed. 

"  My  dear  child,"  began  Mrs.  Courtcnay,  "  I 
really  wish  you  would  soon  come  back.  Ever 
since  your  wedding-day,  as  I  already  told  you, 
Mr,^.  Luan  is  unbearable.  I  cannot  manage 
HER !  I  must  say  I  think  it  hard  that  Mb. 
Templemore  compelled  you  to  leave  me  m 
that  cruel  fashion.  I  cannot  imagine  why  he 
thought  me  in  the  way.  I  wonder  how  he  will 
like  it  when  some  man  comes  and  whisks  off 
Eva  from  him  ?  " 

"  I  shall  not  like  it  at  all,"  candidly  re- 
marked Mr.  Templemore,  "  but  I  shall  have  to 
bear  with  it." 


212 


DORA. 


"Eva  was  very  glad  to  see  me,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  epistle;  "but  is  longing  to 
have  you  and  her  father  back.  Miss  Moore  is 
prosy  and  stupid,  as  usual."  Dora  rather  re- 
gretted having  told  Mr.  Templemore  to  read 
her  mother's  letter,  but  took  comfort  on  see- 
ing him  smile.  "  However,"  kindly  resumed 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  I  attribute  that  just  now  to 
the  fact  that  there  is,  a  host  of  horrible  childish 
diseases  about  Les  Roches.  Croup,  measles, 
and  scarlatina,  says  Miss  Moore." 

Mr.  Templemore  read  no  more.  His  very 
lips  had  turned  white  with  emotion.  "  I  must 
go — go  at  once,  and  take  Eva  away,"  he  said, 
scarcely  able  to  command  his  voice. 

"  We  must  go,"  eagerly  said  Dora; 

"No — no — I  cannot  make  you  travel  so 
fast,"  he  said,  speaking  more  calmly;  you 
must  stay  here  ! " 

"  Stay  ! — have  you  so  soon  forgotten  your 
promise?"  asked  Dora,  with  a  reproachful 
frown. 

Yes,  two  days  before  she  had  extracted  from 
him  a  fond  pledge  that  he  would  never  ask  or 
expect  to  leave  her.  "I  do  not  say  that  I 
shall  never  let  you  stir  without  me,"  had  said 
Dora ;  "  but  I  must  have  the  right  of  going  with 
you."  If  Mr.  Templemore's  honeymoon  had 
been  over,  he  might  have  demurred,  but  hav- 
ing been  only  thirteen  days  wedded,  he  knew 
not  how  to  resist  this  charming  despot,  and 
he  yielded  all  the  more  willingly  that  in  the 
intoxication  of  his  new  passion  it  seemed  im- 
possible to  him  ever  to  cease  to  wish  for  the 
society  of  one  so  dear.  So  he  promised,  as . 
most  men  in  love  would  have  promised,  and 
now  he  was  pledged  to  his  word. 

"And  I  shall  not  set  you  free,"  now  said 
Dora,  with  a  bright,  fond  smile ;  "  I  will  be  as 
exacting  as  any  sorceress  with  any  knight  of 
romance.  So  let  us  go  at  once,  and  find  Eva 
sound  and  well  at  the  end  of  our  journey." 

"  She  is  a  sorceress,"  thought  Mr.  Temple- 
more, as  he  left  her  to  give  orders  for  tlieir 


journey.  "She  is  not  beautiful,  she  is  not 
even  what  people  call  very  pretty',  and  yet — 
and  yet."  He  needed  no  words  to  complete 
the  picture  his  fancy  called  up.  A  fiice  bright 
as  sunshine,  happy,  radiant  eyes,  a  light  young 
figure,  told  him  Dora's  spell  more  potent  than 
mere  beauty,  aud  infinitely  more  seducing. 

But  that  bright  face  was  clouded,  and  these 
happy  eyes  grew  dim  when  he  left  her.  Dora 
stood  by  the  open  window,  and  she  looked  out 
sadly  on  the  verdant  wilderness  below  her. 
She  could  not  bear  to  leave  that  Eden — not, 
at  least,  to  leave  it  so  soon.  Spite  all  her 
husband's  fondness,  Dora  did  not  feel  sure  of 
him  yet.  She  wanted  time  to  become  to  him 
something  more  than  a  bright-haired  girl,  with 
fine  eyes.  She  wanted  to  grow  identified  with 
and  to  be  a  portion  of  his  daily  life.  She 
wished  for  nothing,  and  no  one  to  break  the 
fond  spell  she  was  weaving  around  him  daily, 
alluring  him  from  that  other  charm  she  had 
involuntarily  cast  upon  him  to  a  surer  and 
more  durable  tenderness.  Already  she  had  by 
gentle  arts  won  her  way  to  some  of  the 
chambers  of  his  heart.  Already  she  knew 
thoughts  which  Mr.  Templemore  had  never 
told  another,  and  which  had  escaped  him  in 
fond  aud  happy  hours;  but  Dora  felt  that 
there  lay  more  behind,  and  that  a  road,  not 
arduous  indeed,  but  mysterious,  and  with  some 
perils,  still  divided  her  from  the  goal  it  was 
her  fond  ambition  to  win.  She  had  no  wish 
to  rule,  no  wish  even  to  influence,  but  she 
wished  to  be  as  near  to  Mr.  Templemore  as 
one  human  being  can  be  to  another,  and  it 
had  rather  disconcerted  her  to  find  that  the 
very  passion  she  inspired  was  an  obstacle 
which  retarded  her  progress.  If  even  in  per- 
fect solitude,  in  unrestrained  liberty,  she  could 
not  have  her  husband  as  she  wished  to  have 
him,  how  much  harder  would  it  be  to  have 
him  thus  with  Eva  to  share  his  love,  and 
others  to  divide  Lis  attention  ! 

"  And  yet  I   shall  prevail,"  she   thought, 


RETUEX   TO   LE3  ROCHES. 


213 


rousing  herself  from  this  passing  despondency; 
"  I  shall  prevail.  Eva  loves  me  so  dearly,  that 
he  cannot  divide  ns  in  his  affection  ;  and  I  am 
too  fond  of  her  to  be  jealous.  She  is  mine 
now — mine  as  well  as  his,  and  the  love  he 
gives  her  he  also  gives  to  me.  Les  Roches  is 
not  so  beautiful  as  Deenah,  but  surely  my  lot 
is  altered  since  I  beheld  it  first.  Those  trees, 
those  alleys,  that  old  house,  are  mine  now — 
mine  at  least  whilst  they  are  his.  And  in  Les 
Roches,  because  I  have  suffered  so  keenly, 
must  Fate  atone,  and  I  shall  be  fully  blest." 

There  was  a  triumphant-  gladness  in  the 
thought  which  conquered  fear,  but  not  regret, 
for  solitude  is  sweet  to  love.  When  they  left 
Deenah  that  afternoon  Mr.  Templemore  saw 
the  fond,  wistful  look  his  wife  cast  back  tow- 
ard the  house,  and  as  he  happened  to  share 
her  feelings,  he  said  with  a  smile : 

"  I  shall  take  Eva  and  Miss  Moore  to  some- 
safe  spot,  and  then  we  shall  come  back  here 
for  the  summer." 

"Will  you — will  you?"  cried  Dora,  with 
sparkling  eyes ;  for  she  thought,  "  I  have  a 
whole  summer  before  me." 

They  travelled  fast,  and  reached  Les  Roches 
toward  noon  on  a  warm  day  in  June.  Dora's 
heart  ached  for  Mr.  Templemore,  as  she  saw 
the  agitation  he  could  not  repress  when  the 
chateau  came  within  view.  But  as  her  glance 
wandered  along  the  road,  she  uttered  a  sudden 
and  joyful — 

"  Look— look  !  " 

For  there,  walking  with  Miss  Moore  in  the 
shade  was  Eva  herself,  and  Fido  behind  her. 
In  a  minute  they  were  down,  Eva  sprang  tow- 
ard them  with  a  joyful  cry,  and  it  would 
have  been  hard  to  say  which  of  the  two,  Mr. 
Templemore  or  his  wife,  looked  the  happier, 
or  kissed  the  child  more  fondly.  For  as  she 
felt  Eva's  little  arms  clasping  her  neck  so 
fondly,  and  heard  her  half  sobbing,  "  Oh ! 
Dora — Cousin  Dora !"  Dora  thought  with  a 
beatin"  heart — 


*'  Tcs,  you  love  me,  Eva — but  can  you  ever 
love  me  as  I  love  you — you  who,  though  you 
do  not  know  it,  have  given  Cousin  Dora  the 
great,  the  perfect  happiness  of  her  life  ?  Poor 
Fido,  you  gave  me  nothing  save  your  little 
honest  heart — but  I  love  you,  too,  so  do  not 
whine.  Oh !  that  the  whole  world,  that  every 
creature,  could  be  as  blest  as  I  am  now  ! " 

She  looked  so  bright,  so  joyous,  so  like  the 
poet's  "  phantom  of  delight,"  as  these  thoughts 
passed  through  her,  that  Mr.  Templemore, 
looking  at  her  with  charmed  eyes,  exclaimed, 
in  very  unpoetic  fashion,  however, 

"  Dora !  I  am  a  lucky  fellow." 

Dora  had  no  time  to  answer ;  Miss  Moore 
now  came  up  to  them. 

"  It  is  such  a  comfort  to  have  you  here,  Mr. 
Templemore,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  meant  to 
express  her  satisfaction  on  his  return,  "  we  had 
such  a  dreadful  day  yesterday." 

"  My  mother  is  sui'ely  not  ill !  "  cried  Dora, 
with  a  sudden  alarm. 

"  Oh !  dear,  no,  but  that  poor  young  man  is 
raving.  He  got  a  sunstroke  on  the  way,  I  be- 
lieve, and  he  was  raving  before  night.  He  is 
very  bad  to-day." 

Dora  grew  white. 

"  What  young  man  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Doctor  Luan,"  composedly  replied  Miss 
Moore ;  "  he  arrived  yesterday  afternoon,  look- 
ing very  odd,  and  flushed  with  that  sunstroke — 
gentlemen  ought  to  have  parasols,  in  my  opin- 
ion— and  when  he  asked  after  you,  and  Miss 
Courtenay  told  him  you  were  on  your  bridal 
tour,  the  surprise  was  toe  much  for  him.  I 
never  saw  any  one  look  so  bad.  I  assure  you, 
Mrs.  Templemore,  it  made  me  feel  quite  con- 
cerned for  him,  poor  young  gentleman !  Well, 
before  half  an  hour  was  over,  he  was  violent, 
but  he  is  not  so  now — only  quite  delirious." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  at  his  wife.     She 
seemed  overwhelmed  with  confusion  and  grief,» 
and  could  not  bear  her  husband's  fixed  gaze. 
He  withdrew  it,  and  they  all  walked  in  si- 

4 


214 


DORA. 


lence    toward    the    house,    Mr.   Templemore 
thinking : 

"This  John  Luau  loved  her— but  surely 
Dora  never  cared  for  him,  and  yet  how  v.hite 
she  is ! " 

Some  men  are  flattered  to  be  the  cause  of 
infidelity,  but  Mr.  Templemore  was  more  jeal- 
ous than  vain,  and  the  thought  of  a  rival,  even 
of  one  whom  he  had  supplanted,  was  hateful 
to  him.  Was  it  possible  that  his  wife  had 
given  to  another  those  looks,  those  smiles,  that 
shy  fondness  which  were  his  now  ?  He  did  not 
believe  it,  but  the  mere  suspicion  made  him 
tremble  with  jealous  resentment. 

"  Oh  !  what  calamity  brought  John  here  ?  " 
thought  Dora ;  "  and  how  is  it  his  mother  never 
told  him  ?  But  I  know  what  he  thinks,  and 
he  must  not— oh  !  he  must  not ! " 

"  Let  Miss  Moore  and  Eva  go  in  without  us," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice  to  her  husband,  "  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you." 

Mr.  Templemore's  color  changed,  but  he 
complied  with  her  request,  and  instead  of  en- 
tering the  chateau,  they  stayed  out  in  the 
flower-garden.  Dora's  heart  felt  very  full. 
John,  her  cousin  and  her  friend,  was  dying, 
perhaps,  and  Mr.  Templemore  suspected  her 
of  having  jilted  him.  She  forgave  him,  but 
she  would  not  enter  his  house  and  cross  his 
threshold  with  that  suspicion  upon  her. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  she  said 
again. 

Mr.  Templemore  winced,  and  prepared  him- 
self for  indulgence  and  forgiveness,  but  his  wife 
asked  neither  from  him. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  "  you  told  me  that  you 
married  me  for  love, not  for  honor;  let  me  tell 
you  tliat  if  I,  too,  had  not  liked  you,  I  could 
never  have  become  your  wife.  I  could  no  more 
sell  myself  for  fair  name  than  for  money,"  she 
added,  with  a  sudden  light  in  her  eyes. 
(,      There  was  a  pause. 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  tell  me,  Dora  ?  " 
asked  Mr,  Templemore. 


"  No  ;  I  am  twenty-four,  and  I  am  not  aware 
that  if  I  had  felt  affection  for  any  other  man 
before  I  met  you,  it  would  have  been  a  wi'ong 
in  me  to  do  so,  provided  such  aflection  was 
true ;  but  it  so  happens  that  I  nev'er  did — 
never  for  one  second — for  one  moment.  I  am 
content  to  be  your  last  love ;  but  it  may  be 
right  you  should  know  you  are  my  first." 

She  spoke  with  a  sadness  that  tempered  the 
fondness  of  her  confession.  But  the  words  she 
had  uttered  sent  the  blood  up  in  a  burning 
tide  to  Mr,  Templemore's  dark  face.  That 
last  love  of  his,  9s  Dora  called  it,  was  surely 
not  the  weakest.  It  was  jealous  and  exacting. 
It  would  be  denied  nothing ;  and  on  learning 
that  it  had  all,  the  past  as  well  as  the  pres- 
ent, it  was  glad  and  triumphant,  even  though 
John  Luan  might  be  dying.  But  Dora  could 
not  forget  the  lover  of  her  youth — the  poor 
man  who  had  come  to  woo  with  his  cottage 
and  his  hundred  a  year;  and  her  voice  was 
subdued  and  low  as  she  said : 

"  That  is  all  I  wished  to  say.  Let  us  go  in 
now." 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

TiiK  cards  spread  on  the  table  before  Mrs, 
Courteuay  must  have  been  going  all  wrong, 
for  Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  troubled  and  sad  as 
Dora  entered  her  room.  On  seeing  her  daugh- 
ter, however,  she  uttered  a  joyful  cry,  and 
looked  beaming. 

"  My  dear  child,  I  am  so  glad  ! "  she  ex- 
claimed, running  ujj  to  her ;  "  how  well  you 
look  ! — and  where  is  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"  He  is  with  poor  Jolin.  Oh  !  mamma, 
what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  " 

"  "We  should  have  sent  him  cards,  I  suppose ; 
he  had  a  sunstroke,  and  hearing  of  your  mar- 
riage finished  him.  Oh  !  what  a  life  we  have 
had  of  it !  Miss  Moore  has  so  worried  about 
measles,  that  I  wish  we  were  all  dead  and 
buried.     I  told  her  so  ;  also,  that  it  was  a  mis- 


DR.   LUAN'S   ILLNESS. 


215 


take  of  licrs  al)oiit  measles,  and  that  I  did  not 
believe  in  them." 

Doi'a  sighed  ;  she  had  left  Paradise  for  earth 
and  its  cares. 

"  Have  you  seen  your  new  room  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Courtenay — "  such  a  lovely  room  !  Such 
beautiful  things,  all  new — come  and  look  at 
it." 

She  rose  and  led  her  to  the  apartment 
which  had  once  been  intended  for  Mrs.  Logan. 
It  had  altered  its  aspect  for  Dora.  She  saw 
so  at  once,  and  the  change  smote  her. 

"  I  do  not  Uke  her,"  she  thought,  "  but  why 
must  I  be  happy  at  her  expense  ?  Why  must 
John  sufiFer  because  I  am  so  blest  ?  " 

"  Is  it  not  pretty  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Courtenay  ; 
"and  Miss  Moore  cannot  leave  off  wondering 
how  fond  he  is  of  you  !  Every  time  some- 
thing new  came  for  you,  she  cried,  '  Why,  he 
dotes  on  Miss  Courtenay  ! '  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  happy — very  happy, "  replied 
Dora  ;  "  but  my  heart  aches  for  poor  John." 

"  And  so  does  mine  ;  only,  you  see,  you 
could  not  marry  them  both,"  innocently  re- 
marked Mrs.  Courtenay. 

"  Oh  !  how  good — how  kind  he  is  ! "  ex- 
claimed Dora,  looking  around  her  and  seeing 
•with  every  glance  new  tokens  of  her  husband's 
affection  ;  "  only  why  cannot  we  be  happy  but 
that  others  must  suffer  ?  " 

"I  wish  John  would  get  well,  and  would 
marry  Florence,"  gravely  said  Mrs.  Courtenay ; 
"it  would  be  so  nice,  and  so  like  a  novel, 
where  people  change  about,  you  know  !  " 

K  Dora  could  have  smiled  then,  she  would 
have  smiled  at  the  suggestion.  Florence  los- 
ing the  master  of  Deenah,  and  taking  up  with 
apoor  doctor  !  It  was  like  her  innocent  little 
mother  to  think  of  such  a  thing  ! 

"And  where  is  John  ?"  she  asked  with  a 
heavy  sigh  ;  "  I  must  go  and  see  him." 

"In  the  room  next  his  mother's  ;  only,  my 
dear,  you  mxist  go  alone,  please — it  makes  me 
miserable,  and  does  poor  John  no  good — be- 


sides, Mrs.  Luan,  poor  soul,  is  so  fierce  that  I 
am  afraid  of  her." 

Again  Dora  sighed,  for  again  she  thought, 
"  Oh  !  why  must  my  happiness  cost  others  so 
dear !  " 

Mrs.  Luan's  room  was  vacant,  but  through 
the  half-open  door  of  the  next  apartment  Dora 
saw  her  aunt  Sitting  alone  by  a  large  white 
bed.  That  room  was  darkened,  and  though 
Dora  saw  her  aunt's  bending  figure  very  plain- 
ly, she  guessed  more  than  she  perceived,  that 
the  bed  was  occupied.  Mr.  Templemore  she 
did  not  see.  He  was  already  gone.  With 
something  like  hesitation  and  fear,  Dora  en- 
tered the  sick-room  ;  and  standing  on  the 
threshold  she  said  :  "  Auut,  may  I  come 
in?  " 

Mrs.  Luan  raised  her  head,  and  Dora  started 
back  at  the  sight  of  her  face.  It  is  said  that 
criminals  shrink  into  old  men  within  the  few 
minutes  that  precede  their  execution ;  and  even 
so  had  age  —  decrepit  age  —  overtaken  this 
sullen,  heavy-looking  woman  within  the  last 
few  hours.  She  stared  at  Dora  with  a  dull, 
vacant  stare  ;  then  suddenly  recognizing  her, 
she  started  up,  and  walked  up  to  her  with  an 
aspect  so  fierce  that  Dora  involuntarily  shrank 
back. 

"  And  so  you  come  to  look  at  him  !  "  said 
Mrs.  Luan,  with  rage  sparklmg  in  her  eyes, 
"  you  come  to  look  at  him,  do  you  ?  " 

"Aunt,  I  am  grieved  to  the  heart." 

"  Grieved  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Luan,  stamp- 
ing her  foot  and  shaking  her  head  at  her — 
"grieved,  are  you  !  Then  how  dare  you  marry 
Mr.  Templemore,  when  you  knew  it  would  kill 
John  ?  " 

Dora  could  not  answer  one  word. 

"And  that  is  my  reward,"  continued  Mrs. 
Luan,  her  wrath  rising  as  she  spoke.  "  I  made 
you  all  you  are,  and  all  the  time  you  had 
promised  to  marry  John  !  I  tell  you  you  had 
— I  tell  you  you  had  ! "  she  cried,  her  voice 
rising  as  she  read  denial  in  Dora's  eyes,  "  deny 


216 


DORA, 


it  if  you  dare — dtoy  it  if  you  dare  ! "  she  re- 
peated defiantly. 

"  If  I  were  on  my  doatlibed  I  would  deny  it !  " 
cried  Dora,  roused  into  self-defence.  "  You 
wrong  me — you  wrong  me  !  Why  did  you 
not  tell  John  1  was  married?  Why  did  you 
let  him  come  here  ?  Aunt,  I  know  you  did  not 
wish  John  to  marry  me  since  I  lost  my  money  ; 
but  I  say  it  is  you,  not  I,  who  have  been  piti- 
less to  him. " 

Mrs.  Luan  started  at  her.  It  was  this  girl 
whom  she  had  raised  to  her  present  height 
who  could  thus  taunt  and  reprove  her. 

"  Oh !  you  are  very  grand  and  proud  be- 
cause you  are  Mr.  Templemore's  wife,"  she 
said,  nodding  at  Dora,  "but you  might  remem- 
ber you  would  not  be  his  wife -but  for  me.  " 

Dora  colored  deeply.  "  I  know  you  must 
have  told  him  where  he  could  find  us  in  Ken- 
sington," she  faltered. 

"  Oh  !  pretend  you  do  not  understand — 
do  !  Pretend  you  do  not  know  who  told  Mrs. 
Logan  he  was  with  you  that  night.    Eh  !  " 

Dora  looked  petrified.  Her  lips  parted, 
her  eyes  wera  fixed  on  Mrs.  Luan,  then  a 
dreadful  light  seemed  to  break  upon  her. 

"And  was  it  you  who  did  that  ?  "  she  said 
at  length — "  was  it  you  ?' " 

The  question  enraged  Mrs.  Luan. 

"  Ask  me — do !  "  she  cried  ;  "  ask  me ! " 

"Aunt,"  piteously  exclaimed  Dora,  "can 
this  be  ?  Did  you  do  it  to  make  Mr.  Temple- 
more  marry  me  ?  " 

"  I  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Luan  with  a  sort  of 
shriek — "  I  did ! — and  because  I  helped  you  to 
a  rich  husband,  to  fine  clothes  and  houses  and 
money,  my  boy  must  die — he  must  die ! "  she 
repeated,  with  a  low,  wailing  moan ;  "  and 
bear  how  he  laughs  at  it  all !  »  she  added,  as  a 
loud  flu  of  laughter  came  from  John  Luan's 
bed,  "  hear  how  merry  he  is  ! " 

"  Xo,  I  do  not  believe  you — it  is  not  pos- 
sible. I  cannot  be  so  miserable — Heaven  is 
too  just  to  allow  such  things,"  cried  Dora  in 


the  despair  of  her  heart.  "  Aunt,  you  are  ill, 
quite  ill  with  grief — you  have  dreamed  all  this 
— jou  never  did  this  thing — never — never ! " 

"I  did!" 

"But  why  did  you  do  it?  Oh!  why?" 
asked  Dora  in  a  voice  full  of  agony.  "  Why 
do  it,  aunt — why  do  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  never  liked  Florence — and  be- 
cause he  was  rich." 

"  And  because  you  did  not  wish  me  to 
marry  John,"  said  Dora,  in  a  transport  of 
anger  she  could  not  repress  ;  "  you  ruined 
Mrs.  Logan's  happiness,  you  risked  my  fair 
name,  you  robbed  Mr.  Templemore  of  his 
liberty — and  all  that  I  might  not  marry  John." 

"And  so  you  taunt  me  with  it!"  sullenly 
said  Mrs.  Luan  ;  "  wait  awhile,  my  lady — wait 
awhile  !  I  have  been  silent,  but  I  can  speak. 
I  wonder  what  he  will  say  when  he  knows  it. 
Ha  !  ha !  I  have  you  there.  You  have  robbed 
me  of  a  son,  but  perhaps  I  can  rob  you  of  a 
husband.  He  .will  turn  me  out  of  the  house, 
but  I  don't  care — you  and  he  shall  not  be 
happy  whilst  John  is  dying." 

She  spoke  calmly  now,  but  her  calmness 
was  more  terrible  than  her  wrath.  A  great 
agony  came  over  Dora  as  she  heard  her,  and 
she  was  seized  with  a  faintness  as  that  of 
death.  Her  husband  loved  her,  but  how 
would  he  feel  if"  he  learned  that  he  had  been 
cheated  into  marrying  her  ! 

"Aunt,"  she  said,  recovering  by  a  strong 
efibrt,  "  you  must  not  do  that,  you  must  not. 
God  knows,  if  I  could  repair  Mr.  Templemore's 
wrong,  ay,  or  even  Mrs.  Logan's  wrong,  I 
would  do  it,  though  my  heart-strings  should 
break  ;  but  I  cannot — we  are  married,  tied  for 
life — you  must  not  speak,  you  must  not." 

She  raised  her  hand  with  a  quiet  gesture  of 
command,  like  one  who  has  uttered  an  unan- 
swerable proposition.  But  Mrs.  Luan  shook 
back  two  dark  locks  which  had  fallen  over 
her  face,  and  looked  at  her  with  the  defiance 
of  a  tigress  whose  cub  has  been  wounded. 


MRS.   TEMPLEMORE  AXD   DER  AUXT. 


217 


"  Think  of  my  boy,"  she  said,  "  and  expect 
no  mercy.  I  have  given  you  a  rich  husband, 
and  you  only  mock  and  upbraid  me  for  it.  Do 
you  tliink  I  will  see  him  die,"  she  added,  nod- 
ding toward  tlie  bed,  "  and  see  you  both  sleep 
sound  and  live  happy  ?    No — no  ! " 

It  was  useless  to  argue  with  her.  This  was 
not  remorse,  repentance,  or  even  sorrow,  it 
was  the  madness  of  despair.  It  was  useless 
to  argue,  but  it  might  not  be  useless  to  en- 
treat. Dora  felt  distracted  with  fear  and 
grief.  She  went  up  to  her  aunt,  she  caught 
her  two  hands,  she  pressed  them  to  her  bosom 
with  passionate  emotion. 

"  Aunt,  spare  me,"  she  said  ;  "  what  have  I 
done  that  you  should  hate  me  ?  Was  I  not 
like  a  daughter  to  you  ?  " 

"  Why  does  he  rave  about  you  ?  "  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Luan.  "  I  bore  him,  I  suckled 
hmi,  I  reared  him  through  privation  and  sor- 
row, I  would  have  died  for  him,  and  it  is  you 
whom  he  raves  about.  Would  he  be  lying 
there  in  brain-fever  if  he  had  found  me  dead  ?  " 

"  Then  you  will  have  no  pity  ?  "  said  Dora, 
dropping  her  aunt's  hands. 

Mrs.  Luan  looked  at  her  in  sullen  silence. 
All  the  passionate  Irish  vehemence  of  Dora's  na- 
ture awoke  within  her.  She  sank  on  her  knees 
before  her  aunt,  she  raised  her  clasped  hands. 

"  Have  mercy  !  "  she  cried,  "  for  John's  sake 
have  mercy  on  me.  Be  silent,  in  order  that 
Heaven  may  hear  your  prayers,  and  grant  us 
both  his  life.  Leave  me  my  husband — leave 
him  to  me.  He  is  my  life,  my  only  supreme 
good,  and  he  loves  me — he  loves  me.  Do  not 
shake  that  love  in  his  heart  by  so  cruel  a  con- 
fession. Remember  that  he  is  my  husband ; 
he  must  forget  Mrs.  Logan  now,  and  love  but 
me.  I  know  that  as  yet  his  is  only  a  man's 
passion  for  youth,  and  what  he  thinks  beauty 
— ^but  give  me  time,  aunt,  give  me  time,  and 
that  love  shall  be  more.  I  shall  have  his 
whole  heart  yet.  I  will  be  his  friend,  his 
companion,  his  mistress,  his  wife,  everything 


which  a  woman  can  be  to  her  husband,  if  you 
will  but  give  me  time." 

Oh  !  if  he  had  seen  her  then  !  If  he  had 
seen  that  pale  face,  breathless  with  entreaty, 
those  deep,  impassioned  eyes — if  he  had  heard 
that  pathetic  voice  vainly  imploring  one  who 
knew  not  mercy  !  Dora  saw  she  had  failed, 
but  she  still  prayed.       * 

"  Give  me  a  few  days,"  she  said,  "  just  a 
few  days,  aunt." 

Mrs.  Luan  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Well,  then,  aunt,  give  me  one  day,  give 
me  one,"  entreated  Dora ;  "  let  me  be  happy 
and  beloved  till  to-morrow."  3Irs.  Luan 
shook  her  head  in  obstinate  denial ;  but  Dora 
clung  to  her  with  ardent  importunity.  "  Give 
me  one  day,"  she  entreated.  "  Oh  !  aunt,  give 
me  one.  I  have  not  been  married  three  weeks. 
Let  me  be  happy  a  few  hours  longer.  Let  me 
— let  me.  And — oh  !  if  prayers  are  heard  in 
heaven,  how  I  will  pray  that  John  may  live  !  " 

Poor  Dora,  she  asked  to  be  happy  when  her 
happiness  was  her  sin. 

"  Let  me  go ! "  said  her  aunt,  sullenly. 
"  John  wants  me." 

Dora  rose  without  a  word,  she  released  Mrs. 
Luan  from  her  clasp ;  she  compelled  herself 
to  say  calmly  : 

"  Aunt,  I  trust  you  will  meet  wit'n  more 
mercy  than  you  show  to  me  ;  "  and  with  these 
words  she  left  the  room  and  went  down-stairs. 

She  walked  out  into  the  garden  bareheaded, 
and  reckless  of  the  hot  sun.  She  felt  distract- 
ed with  sorrow.  Her  pride  was  stung  to 
think  that  she  had  been  forced  on  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore,  and  her  heart  was  tortured  before- 
hand at  the  thought  of  what  his  feelings 
would  be  when  he  knew  it.  Would  his  love 
go  back  to  the  wronged  woman,  whom  her 
aunt  had  betrayed,  and  leave  her,  his  wretched 
wife,  all  plundered  and  forlorn?  It  was  agony 
to  think  it — an  agony  so  keen  that  she  stood 
still,  and  wondered  she  did  not  expire  with 
grief  at  the  thought. 


218 


DORA. 


"  Dora,"  said  a  fond,  reproving  voice. 

She  turned  round  with  a  thrill  of  joy.  He 
knew  nothing ;  he  loved  her  still.  Yes,  for  a 
few  moments,  for  a  few  hours,  perhaps,  her 
husband  was  her  own. 

"What  brings  you  out  here  bareheaded  in 
that  hot  sun  ?  "  he  asked,  with  gentle  chiding. 

"  Yes,  he  loves  me  still,"  thought  Dora, 
looking  at  him  with  sad,  earnest  eyes ;  but 
her  only  answer  was :  "  Have  you  seen  him  ? 
— how  is  he  ?  " 

"  In  great  danger,  I  fear." 

"And  Eva — when  do  you  take  her  away?  " 
she  asked,  almost  eagerly,  "  she  must  not  stay 
here,  you  know." 

"  No,  she  must  not.  Miss  Moore  is  getting 
ready.     They  leave  this  evening." 

"  But  you  go  with  them — do  you  not  ? — 
you  go  with  them." 

"  Not  whilst  that  poor  fellow  is  all  but  dy- 
ing in  my  house." 

A  sort  of  anguish  passed  over  Dora's  face, 
but  Mr.  Templemore  did  not  read  its  meaning. 

"  He  may  live,"  he  said,  kindly. 

"  God  grant  he  may  !  "  she  replied  in  a  low 
tone ;  "  but  what  will  your  presence  here  do 
him  ? — I  shall  not  feel  happy  if  you  do  not 
accompany  Eva  and  Miss  Moore."  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore looked  so  amazed  at  this  speech  that 
Dora  added,  "  I  have  a  presentiment  of  evil — 
a  foreboding  I  cannot  conquer." 

She  looked  so  deadly  pale,  that  Mr.  Temple- 
more  was  filled  with  concern. 

"  You  have  seen  that  poor  young  man,  and 
it  has  been  too  much  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  No,  I  only  saw  his  mother.  How  strange 
and  wild  she  i#!— don't  you  think  she  is 
mad  ?  "  she  added,  standing  still  in  the  path 
they  were  following. 

"  Mad  !— she  was  perfectly  calm  half  an 
hour  ago,  Dora." 

"  Yes,  she  is  always  so  with  you,"  replied 
Dora,  with  involuntary  bitterness. 

Mr.  Templemore  did  not   answer,  but  he 


thought  his  wife's  manner  strange.  They 
walked  on  in  silence  till  they  reached  that 
old  bench  on  which  Dora  had  seen  her  hus- 
band and  Florence  sitting  side  by  side.  Never 
had  the  quiet  spot  looked  darker  or  cooler 
than  it  did  now.  Never  had  its  green  shade 
been  more  delicious  and  alluring  than  it  was 
on  this  warm  afternoon. 

"  Let  us  rest,"  she  said. 

He  sat  down,  nothing  loth.  Later,  he  knew 
the  meaning  of  a  change  in  his  wife's  manner 
which  now  perplexed  him — later,  he  knew 
why  she  passed  thus  suddenly  from  the  sad- 
ness of  despair  to  this  feverish  joy.  He  would 
not  go — he  would  not  believe  anything  she 
could  urge  against  Mrs.  Luan ;  she  was  doomed, 
she  was  hopeless,  then  let  her  be  happy  and 
beloved  whilst  happiness  and  love  were  still 
within  her  grasp.  She  rested  her  head  on 
his  shoulder  with  unwonted  familiarity ;  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  sad  though  undisguised 
affection,  and  she  said,  with  the  daring  of 
despair : 

"  It  seems  impossible  sometimes  that  you 
should  like  me — do  you  ?  Tell  me  so,  that  I 
may  believe  it,  and  feel  sure." 

Mr.  Templemore  was  not  given  to  the  lan- 
guage of  protestation  or  endearment,  but 
something  in  her  look  and  tone  now  stirred 
the  very  fibres  of  his  heart.  He  answered 
her  question  as  a  man  in  love  might  answer 
it  when  such  a  question  is  put  by  a  wife  young 
and  fondly  loved — half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest, 
yet  with  unconscious  and  involuntary  fervor. 
Dora  heard  him  in  silence.  The  spot  was 
beautiful,  and  cool,  and  lonely,  buti  she 
could  not  forget  that  a  month  before  she 
had  seen  Mr.  Templemore  there  with  another 
woman.  The  birds  that  sang  so  sweetly 
above  them  had  not  changed  their  mates, 
the  young  leaves  on  the  trees  had  not  lost 
their  spring  beauty,  and  yet  his  love  for  that 
woman  was  sere  and  dead. 

"  How  will  he  feel  when  he  knows  he  was 


DORA'S  ANXIETY, 


219 


cheated  into  marrying  me?"  tliought  Mr. 
Templemore's  wife.  Then  she  remembered 
her  dead  brotlier,  whom  this  man,  now  so 
dear,  had  supplanted  in  his  fortune,  in  Flor- 
ence Gale's  love,  and  lastly,  in  her  own  heart ; 
*  V  slie  remembered  John  Luan  lying  up-stairs, 
and  raving  about  her,  and  his  mother  mad 
with  grief:  and  thus  surrounded  with  calami- 
ties, past  or  present,  or  yet  to  come,  she  felt 
like  the  ancient  criminals  before  whom  a  de- 
lightful feast  was  set,  because  they  were  to 
die.  "  Why  shoutd  I  not  do  like  them  ?  " 
thought  Dora — "  the  past  is  irrevocable,  the 
future  is  uncertain,  but  the  present  is  mine. 
I  may  be  a  beggar  to-morrow,  but  I  am  a 
queen  to-day." 

She  roused  herself,  she  compelled  herself 
to  be  happy  and  gay,  and,  above  all,  she  put 
by  the  silent  shyness  of  her  usual  manner 
with  Mr.  Templemore,  and  she  did  her  best 
to  charm  him.  The  task  was  an  easy  one. 
This  bright  young  creature,  so  full  of  life  and 
gladness,  enchanted  him.  Few  men  like  tame 
happiness,  and  most  are  pleased  with  variety. 

"  I  have  got  a  new  Dora  to-day,"  he  could 
not  help  saying  to  her — "  I  have  had  a  silent 
Dora,  a  shy  Dora,  a  proud  Dora,  and  to-day  I 
have  a  brilliant  Dora." 

"  A  proud  Dora !  "  she  repeated — "  when 
was  I  proud  ?  " 

"  You  will  not  let  me  give  you  anything." 

"  You  have  given  me  a  wedding-ring,"  she 
replied,  with  stidden  emotion  ;  "  provided  you 
never  repent  it,  I  shall  be  happy." 

Repent  it! — he  seemed  amused  at  the 
thought ;  but  he  again  reproached  her  for  her 
pride. 

"  Oh !  give  me  anything  you  please,"  she 
said,  a  little  carelessly — "  diamonds,  if  you 
like." 

"  Wliy  not  ?  "  he  asked,  a  little  shortly— 
"  why  should  I  not  give  jou  a  diamond  brace- 
let •? " 

Dora  looked  at  him  very  earnestly. 


"  Not  a  bracelet — give  me  a  cross ;  it  is  an 
emblem  ©f  suffering,  and  when  I  feel  too 
happy,  it  will  help  to  subdue  me,  and  remind 
me  of  to-day." 

Mr.  Templemore  smiled,  and  replied  that 
she  should  have  a  diamond  cross  to  wear 
around  her  neck. 

"  Yes,  I  believe  I  have  a  pretty  neck,  and 
that  be  admires  it,"  thought  Dora,  with  silent 
despair ;  "  but  what  will  he  care  for  that  to- 
night ?  " 

She  could  not  forget  it,  and  when  Mr. 
Templemore  rose  from  the  bench,  and  said  it 
was  time  to  go  in,  she  gave  a  start  of  terror. 
She  had  but  one  thought — to  delay  the  fatal 
moment.  To  some  extent  she  succeeded ;  she 
never  left  his  side.  At  first  Mr.  Templemore 
did  not  object  to  this  fond  inquisition,  but  it 
was  inquisition,  and  he  soon  felt  it,  and  won- 
dered at  it.  He  wondered,  too,  at  Dora's 
silence ;  her  fitful  spirits  were  fled,  and  she 
looked  deeply  depressed. 

"  You  are  as  mute  as  a  bird  when  the  storm 
is  coming  on,"  said  Mr.  Templemore,  who  little 
knew  how  apt  was  his  simile.  "You  are 
tired.    Lie  down  on  the  sofa." 

They  were  in  her  old  sitting-room  on  the 
ground-floor  when  he  spoke  thus. 

"  Yes,  I  shall  lie  down,"  said  Dora,  languid- 
ly. She  closed  her  eyes,  in  order  not  be 
obliged  to  speak.  He  thought  she  was  sleep- 
ing, and  soon  rose  to  leave  her ;  but  ere  he 
had  reached  the  door  she  had  started  to  her 
feet  and  stood  before  him  in  breathless  fear. 
"  Do  not  leave  me,"  she  entreated.  "  I  can- 
not bear  it." 

Mr.  Templemore  could  scarcely  believe  his 
ears.  Fear,  real  fear,  was  in  her  whole 
aspect.  It  was  very  unlike  Dora  Courtenay, 
so  proud,  so  brave,  to  be  thus  childishly  afraid 
of  solitude. 

"  I  shall  ring  for  Fanny,"  he  said. 

"  Xo,  no,  stay  with  me.     I  want  you." 

She  was  petulant,  wilful,  and  yet  fond,  and 


220 


DORA. 


she  had  her  way.  Mr.  Templemore  was 
ashamed  and  vexed  to  yield.  He  began  to 
think  that  he  had  a  capricious  Dora  as  well 
as  a  charming  one ;  but  her  tender  and  obsti- 
nate entreaties  prevailed.  Mr.  Templemore 
chid  her,  but  he  did  not  go ;  that  reprieve 
was  granted  to  her. 

"  What  if  I  were  to  tell  him  myself?  "  once 
thought  Dora,  seeing  how  kind  and  indulgent 
he  was ;  but  her  heart  failed  her  at  the 
thought — besides,  faint  hope  crept  into  her 
heart  as  time  passed.  If  John  got  better,  her 
aunt  might  relent,  and  she  might  yet  be  saved. 


CHAPTER    XL. 

Mr.  Templemore's  sister-in-law  wanted  to 
speak  to  him,  and  Mr.  Templemore,  it  was 
found,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  search, 
was  with  his  wife  in  the  room  which  had  been 
the  governess's  sitting-room.  But  Miss  Moore 
had  good  reason  for  not  choosing  to  speak  to 
him  there,  and  she  sent  a  civil  message,  full 
of  apologies,  but  implying  plainly  her  wish  for 
a  private  interview.  Dora,  who  held  her 
husband's  hand,  as  if  she  had  feared  he 
should  escape  her,  was  obliged  to  relinquish 
her  hold.  She  could  not  go  with  him,  she 
could  not  bid  him  stay,  she  could  only  say : 

"You  will  soon  come  back ?  " 

"  Very  soon,"  he  replied,  cheerfully. 

He  went,  rather  pleased  at  having  made  his 
escape,  for  he  wished  to  see  John  Luan  again, 
and  he  did  not  want  his  wife  to  accompany 
him  and  encounter  tliat  sad  sight.  "  Shall  I 
go  and  see  him  first?"  he  thought,  as  he 
went  up  the  staircase.  "  Miss  Moore  can  wait 
a  few  minutes."  So,  instead  of  entering  the 
drawing-room  on  his  right,  he  turned  toward 
Mrs.  Luan's  room  on  his  left. 

But  scarcely  liad  Mr.  Templemore  entered 
the  sick-room,  when  the  door  which  he  had 
closed  opened  again,  and  Dora  appeared,  pale 


and  breathless.      She   had  guessed   all,  and 
followed  him. 

*'  My  darling,  what  brings  you  here  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  gentle  reproof.  "It  is  a  sad,  a 
very  sad  sight  for  you."  ^ 

A  loud,  appalling  fit  of  laughter  from  the     '^ 
sick-bed  confirmed  his  words. 

"Mrs.  Luan  raised  her  bowed  head  and 
looked  at  them.  Dora  stood  near  her  hus- 
band. His  arm  was  passed  around  her  with 
protecting  tenderness ;  her  eyes  were  raised  to 
his  with  something  beyond  love  in  their  gaze 
— something  of  the  worship  and  despair  of  a 
lost  spirit  looking  her  last  of  paradise,  for  she 
thought,  "  Now  the  time  has  come  ! " 

John  Luan's  mother  rose  on  perceiving 
them,  and  Mr.  Templemore  saw  aunt  and 
niece  exchange  a  look  so  strange  that  it 
amazed  him.  Why  did  Mrs.  Luan's  eyes  gaze 
so  fiercely  on  his  wife,  and  why  did  Dora  turn 
so  deadly  pale  as  her  own  eyes  met  them  ? 
He  began  to  understand  that  something  which 
concerned  him,  but  of  which  he  was  kept  igno- 
rant, lay  hidden  under  those  silent  looks — some 
war,  some  contest !  What  could  it  be  ?  Why 
had  Dora  followed  him  ? 

"  How  is  your  son,  Mrs.  Luan  ?  "  he  asked, 
gravely. 

"  How  is  he ! "  she  angrily  echoed,  "  Why 
do  you  ask?  Why  do  you  come?  What 
brings  you  both  here  ?  Could  you  not  stay 
away  ?  Is  it  to  taunt  him  that  you  come  ? 
Look  at  them,  John,  look  at  them  ! " 

"Is  that  woman  mad,  as  Dora  says," 
thought  Mr.  Templemore,  "  or  what  is  it  ?  " 

She  stood  by  the  bed  looking  at  her  son, 
and  pointing  with  a  scornful  forefinger  to  Mr. 
Templemore  and  his  wife.  Then  turning  upon 
them  with  sudden  fury — 

^'  Begone  ! "  she  said  ;  "  begone,  or  I  will 
make  you  repent  having  come  near  him ! " 

Mr.  Templemore  did  not  move,  and  Dora 
only  clung  closer  to  him ;  but  she  looked  at 
her  aunt  with  mingled  dread  and  entreaty. 


SCENE  AT  DR.   LUAN'S  SICK-BED. 


221 


"  Ha !  I  can  make  you  quake,  my  lady ! " 
said  Mrs.  Luun,  nodding  at  her  pale  niece. 
"  I  gave  you  a  husband,  and  you  robbed  me 
of  a  son  in  return — but  I  can  make  you 
quake ! " 

"Aunt — aunt!  "  implored  Dora. 

Mrs.  Luan  laughed,  and  John  Luan,  who 
had  been  silent  awhile,  tossed  restlessly  in  his 
bed,  and  laughed  with  his  mother. 

"  You  hear  him  ! "  she  cried,  stamping  her 
foot  and  looking  angrily  at  Dora ;  "  go,  I  say  ! 
— go  both  of  you  this  moment !  " 

"  Richard,  let  us  go  away ! "  entreated 
Dora ;  "  oh  !  let  us  go  away  !  " 

But  no  more  than  before  did  Mr.  Temple- 
more  stir.  He  darted  piercing  looks  from  Mrs. 
Luan  to  his  "wife.  There  was  something — 
some  hidden  quarrel  between  these  two  women 
— a  threat  on  one  hand  and  fear  on  the  other, 
for  he  felt  Dora  tremble  in  every  limb. 
What  was  it? — what  could  it  be? 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  kind  tone,  and 
drawing  her  more  closely  to  him  as  he  spoke 
thus,  bending  over  her — "Dora,  what  is  it? 
Trust  in  me." 

The  words  were  like  dew  from  heaven.  She 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "  Oh !  for- 
give me ! "  she  cried ;  "  forgive  me ! — I  could 
not  help  it ! " 

He  returned  the  caress,  and  again  he  said, 
"  What  is  it  ?— trust  in  me." 

Mrs.  Luan  answered  that  question. 

"  So  you  could  not  help  it,  forsooth,"  she 
said,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  rage.  "  Are 
these  my  thanks  for  making  you  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  wife  ? "  she  added,  rolling  her  head 
from  left  to  right,  as  if  confounded  at  Dora's 
ingratitude.  "  Are  these  my  thanks  for  parting 
him  from  Mrs.  Logan,  whom  you  so  hated  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore,  who  had  listened  astound- 
ed, now  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung. 

"  You  part  me  from  Mrs.  Logan  ! "  he  cried, 
his  eyes  flashing ;  "  'tis  false ! — you  dare  not ! 
— you  could  not !  " 


"Yes,"  rephed  Mrs.  Luan,  with  a  sullen 
nod,  "you  always  scorned  me — I  was  stupid, 
was  I?  But  I  could  make  you  put  by  one 
woman  and  marry  another,  clever  man  though 
you  were,  and  foolish  woman  though  you 
thought  me." 

The  insolence  of  this  boast  exasperated  Mr. 
Templemore.  "  I  tell  you  'tis  false ! — false ! " 
he  said  sternly  ;  "  you  never  did  it ! " 

"  Did  I  not,  though  ?  Who  made  Florence 
jealous?  'Twas  I,  Mr.  Templemore.  Who 
gave  something  to  Eva  that  made  her  ill,  and 
who  told  you  to  go  to  Dora  that  night  whilst 
Florence  was  watching  ?  'Twas  L  Ask  her, 
ask  Florence,  ask  Mrs.  Logan,  if  you  do  not 
believe  me." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  thunderstruck. 

"No,  you  could  not  be  so  base,"  he  said  ; 
"  you  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  tamper  with 
my  child  for  that  object — you  could  not.  I 
had  heaped  you  and  yours  with  benefits — you 
could  not  pay  me  back  thus  ! " 

"  Benefits !  Yes,  you  robbed  me  and  John 
and  Paul  and  Dora  of  my  brother's  money, 
and  you  threw  us  a  bone  in  return.  And  you 
wanted  to  marry  that  Florence  Gale,  who  jilted 
Paul.  No,  no,  Mr.  Templemore,  I  said  you 
should  marry  my  niece,  and  you  did — you 
did ! " 

Dora,  overwhelmed  with  shame  and  grief, 
hid  her  burning  face  in  her  hands.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore could  not  speak. 

"You  thought  me  stupid,"  said  Mrs.  Luan 
again ;  "  you  thought  me  stupid,  eh  ?  "  She 
said  no  more,  hv$  sat  down  again  by  her  son. 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  A  sorrow  too 
keen  for  anger  or  indignation  had  fallen  on 
Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Poor  Florence  ! "  he  said,  with  a  quiver- 
ing lip ;  "  poor,  foolish  Florence !  " 

His  troubled  eye  fell  on  Dora  as  he  spoke. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  see  her,  but  that  look,  so 
f\ir  away,  so  remote,  cut  her  to  the  heart. 
She  withdrew  from  his  side,  and  he  did  not 


222  , 


DORA. 


detain  or  call  her  back  ;  he  stood  as  the  blow- 
had  struck  him — pale,  motionless,  and,  save 
those  words,  silent.  Dora  forgot  her  own 
grief  in  the  sight  of  his. 

"  Richard,"  she  said,  coming  back  to  him, 
and  her  tears  flowing,  "  forgive  me  if  I  cannot 
set  you  free  ! — forgive  me ! "  Her  eyes  were 
raised  to  his,  tears  were  on  her  cheeks,  and 
her  look  seemed  to  say,  "  Oh  !  dare  I  be  happy 
again  ?  " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  he  looked 
down  at  her  very  sorrowfully,  but  with  return- 
ing tenderness,  and  that  sad  look  seemed  to 
reply  :  "  Be  happy,  my  darling,  be  happy ! " 

John  Luan's  mother  stared  at  them  with 
jealous,  angry  eyes.  Her  son,  whom  the  hap- 
piness of  these,  two  had  brought  to  death's 
door,  lay  on  his  sick-bed,  pale,  breathless,  e::- 
hausted  with  delirium,  and  they  stood  there 
happy  and  fond,  braving  her  with  the  inso- 
lence of  their  love. 

"'You  little  hypocrite  ! "  she  cried,  starting 
to  her  feet,  and  shaking  her  resentful  hand  at 
Dora,  "  how  dare  you  make  me  do  it  ?  How 
dare  you,  and  be  jilting  John  all  the  time  ?  " 

"  I ! "  cried  Dora,  amazed  at  the  imputation ; 
"  I  made  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Yes — deny  it  now — do !  " 

"  Oh !  Richard,  Richard,"  said  Dora,  with 
sudden  anguish ;  "  you  will  never  believe  that, 
will  you  V  " 

"  Believe  that  you  could  abet  this  miserable 
woman,"  he  replied,  with  scorn  ;  "  believe  that, 
Dora ! " 

"  And  so  I  am  to  bear  the  burden  of  the 
sin,  and  you  are  to  reap  the  benefit ! "  cried 
Mrs  Luan,  enraged—"  you  who  made  me  do 
it.     I  say  it  again  !  " 

"Peace!"  said  Mr.  Templemore,  turning 
sternly  upon  her.  "  But  for  your  son's  sake, 
you  should  leave  the  house  this  instant.  As 
it  is,  I  forbid  you  from  this  day  forth  ever  to 
address  my  wife  again  ! " 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Luan,  witli 


much  scorn ;  "  I  am  too  wicked,  and  she  is 
too  good.  I  promised  her  she  should  become 
your  wife,  and  now  that  I  have  kept  my  word 
I  must  not  speak  to  my  lady  ! ' 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  both  indignant  and 
incredulous. 

"  Dora,"  he  said — "  Dora  joining  in  a  plot 
so  shameful ! — Dora  abetting  you  in  entrap- 
ping Mrs.  Logan  ! — Dora  helping  to  work  her 
own  disgrace !     It  is  false  !  " 

"  'Tis  true,"  doggedly  replied  Mrs.  Luan. 

Dora  turned  crimson  with  indignation  and 
shame.  She  left  her  husband's  side.  She 
went  up  to  her  aunt,  she  laid  her  hand  on  Mrs. 
Luan's  arm,  and,  looking  her  steadily  in  the 
face,  she  said  firmly  : 

"  Aunt,  how  dare  you  say  it  ? — how  dare 
you  say  it,  with  John  Luan  lying  there  ?  " 

"  And  how  dare  you  deny  it  ?  "  cried  Mrs. 
Luan,  placing  either  hand  on  Dora's  shoul- 
ders, and  looking  at  her  wildly;  "did  I  not 
promise  the  first  day  we  all  entered  this  house 
— did  I  not  promise  you  should  become  its 
mistress  ?    Deny  that  if  you  dare  !  " 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  at  Dora ;  she  was 
ashy  pale,  and  her  lips  quivered,  but  she  was 
mute. 

"  And  did  you,  or  did  your  mother,  ask  me 
how  I  was  t(i  make  you  Mr.  Templemore's 
wife  ? — how  I  was  to  part  him  and  Florence 
Gale  ?  Did  either  of  you  question  or  try  to 
know,  or  say,  '  Do  not  do  it  ? '  Xot  once — 
not  once." 

Mr.  Templemore  again  looked  at  his  wife. 
She  could  not  bear  that  look ;  her  eyes  sank 
before  his. 

"  She  can't  deny  it  !  "  triiimphantly  ex- 
claimed Mrs.  Luan.  "  You  know,"  she  added, 
turning  pitilessly  on  Dora,  "you  know  you 
taxed  me  with  it  the  next  morning.  '  Aunt,' 
you  said,  '  who  did  this  ?  '  You  knew  'twas 
I,  but  you  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Logan — you 
liked  Mr.  Templemore.  Deny  that — and  also 
that  vou  hated  Florence  ?  '^ 


MRS.   LUAN'S  PLOT  REVEALED. 


223 


Dora  denied  nothing.  The  net  that  en- 
snared her  was  drawing  so  close  around  her 
that  ehe  felt  both  fettered  and  tongue-tied. 
N'o,  she  could  not  deny  her  aunt's  predictions, 
she  could  not  deny  her  love  and  her  hatred, 
Qow  both  turning  against  her  with  such  venge- 
ful power.  She  had  boasted  of  both  to  him, 
and  both  now  stood  up  as  implacable  witnesses 
to  condemn  her.  She  felt  it,  and  she  also  felt 
lost,  ruined,  and  undone. 

Cold  drops  of  perspiration  stood  thick  on 
Mr.  Templemore's  brow.  Once  more  he  had 
been  cheated  and  betrayed,  but  this  time  how 
frightfully  !  He  bad  been  robbed  of  the  woman 
he  loved,  and  entrapped  into  marrying  another, 
and  the  best  feelings  of  his  nature  —  gener- 
osity, pity,  honor — had  been  enlisted  to  work 
out  his  undoing.  A  colder  man,  or  a  less  gen- 
erous one,  a  man  of  inferior  nature,  could 
never  have  thus  succumbed  nor  fallen  into  this 
mean  trap.  He  bad  been  duped  by  the  con- 
temptible woman  before  him,  and  Dora  had 
been  her  tacit  accomplice.  An  innocent  though 
foolish  woman  had  been  driven  into  the  mad- 
ness of  jealousy  that  this  family,  whom  he  had 
treated  with  romantic  generosity,  might  fasten 
upon  him  for  life,  and  he,  the  rich  man,  might 
become  the  poor  girl's  husband.  And  Dora 
had  shared  the  baseness  even  as  she  had 
reaped  the  benefit. 

She  had  not  laid  the  trap ;  no — but  she  had 
let  him  fall  into  it,  and  never,  by  helping  hand, 
or  even  by  word  or  sign,  tried  to  save  him. 
She  had  done  nothing  deliberate,  but  sue  had 
allowed  another  to  act;  and  when  all  was 
ready — when  Florence  and  he  had  become  her 
victims,  when  pity  and  honor  had  made  liim 
turn  to  her,  she  had  appeared  before  him  with 
the  pale  and  troubled  beauty  of  a  proud  and 
fair  martyr — she  had  ensnared  him  with,  her 
youth  and  her  hidden  love,  and  wakened  La 
his  heart  a  passion  so  violent  and  so  engrossing 
that  it  completed  her  double  triumph  over  Mrs. 
Logan.  .  Yes,  and   as  these  thoughts  passed 


through  him  with  the  cruel  rapidity  of  light- 
ning, it  stung  Mr.  Templemore  to  feel  that  she 
had  robbed  Florence  of  her  lover,  even  more 
than  of  her  husband.  He  turned  upon  her, 
wrath  and  grief  in  his  looks. 

"  Madam,  speak !  "  he  said  impetuously  and 
imperiously.     "  Do  you  not  hear  that  you  are 
accused  ? — speak,  I  say  1 " 
Thus  adjured,  Dora  looked  up. 
"  I  am  innocent,"  she  said. 
"  Innocent ! "    said   her   aunt ;    "  yes,   you 
never  questioned — you  did  not  want  to  know — 
you  let  me  do  it,  and  now,  like  a  coward,  you 
want  to  escape  the  blame.     Let  Mr.  Temple- 
more  ask  your  mother  if  I  did  not  promise 
that  you  should  marry  him,  that's  all." 

Dora  saw  the  angry  light  that  passed  through 
Mr.  Templemore's  eyes  as  her  aunt  uttered 
these  words  ;  she  looked  from  him,  her  judge, 
to  Mrs.  Luan,  her  accuser. 

"I  am  innocent,"  she  said  again. 
Mrs.  Luan  laughed  scornfully,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  was  mute.  For  a  while  she  too 
stood  silent,  then  a  coldness  as  that  of  death 
seemed  to  fall  on  her  heart.  She  turned  away 
and  left  the  room  without  a  word. 

Mr.  Templemore  walked  up  to  Mrs.  Luan, 
and  seizing  her  arm,  he  looked  down  in  her 
face,  and  said  sternly, 

"  ^Tiat  was  your  motive?  " 
His  look,  his  tone,  alike  mastered  her. 
"  I  did  not  want  her  to  marry  John  ?  "  she 
answered. 

He  smiled  bitterly.  He  had  been  sacrificed 
that  John  might  be  safe. 

"  And  what  was  lier  motive  ?  "  he  asked 
agam. 

"  You  know  it,"  sulkily  replied  Mrs.  Luan  ; 
"  she  liked  you." 

Yes,  some  men  are  betrayed  for  their  money, 
but  Mr.  Templemore  had  been  cheated  out  of 
his  liberty  for  love.  For  love !  He  bit  his 
lip  till  it  bled,  and  he  grasped  Mrs.  Luan's 
arm  so  tightly  that  she  said  with  some  anger. 


224 


DORA. 


"  Let  me  go  ;  you  hurt  me.  "WTiy  do  you 
put  it  all  upon  me  ?  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  al- 
ways talking  about  it,  and  Dora  was  fretting 
to  have  you.  I  did  j'ou  no  wrong,  after  all — 
you  liked  Dora,  you  know  you  did." 

"  I  liked  her !  you  dare  to  tell  me  that  ?  I 
liked  your  niece  whilst  I  was  pledged  to  Mrs. 
Logan." 

"  Never  mind,  you  like  her  now,"  was  Mrs. 
Luan's  ironical  reply. 

"  I  like  her  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  let  me  go— I  say  you  hurt  me." 

"Let  you  go?"  he  replied,  dropping  her 
arm  with  a  look  of  the  deepest  contempt. 
"  Mrs.  Luan,  I  leave  the  house  to  day — let  me 
not  find  you  here,  or  your  son,  or  your  sister, 
when  I  come  back." 

"And  Dora,"  defiantly  asked  Mrs.  Luan, 
"  are  you  going  to  turn  out  Dora  ? — you  can't, 
you  know — she  is  your  wife." 

"  She  may  rue  it  yet,"  he  said,  his  eyes  flash- 
ing with  anger,  "  but  she  shall  stay  here,  of 
course ;  as  for  you,  Mrs.  Luan — do  not  trust 
to  my  forbearance  for  your  sou — leave  soon — 
leave  quickly." 

He  left  the  room  as  he  uttered  the  words. 
As  he  closed  the  door  he  met  Mrs.  Courtenay. 
Without  a  word  of  preface  or  courteous  greet- 
ing, with  a  sternness  which  she  had  never  seen 
in  him,  he  stopped  her  and  said  : 

"Mrs.  Courtenay,  is  it  true  that  when  I 
brought  you  to  this  house,  with  your  sister-in- 
law  and  Dora,  you  contemplated  that  I  should 
marry  your  daughter  ?  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  knew  nothing,  but  Mr,  Tem- 
plemore's  manner  and  looks  frightened  her. 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  implored,  "  do 
not  be  angry  with  poor  Dora,  do  not." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  not  angry— not  at  all,  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, I  only  want  to  know  if  Mrs.  Luan  did 
really,  as  she  tells  me,  promise  Dora  that  she 
should  become  my  wife?  " 

"  She  did,"  eagerly  replied  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
by  no  means  loath  to  throw  all  the  blame  on 


her  sister-in-law,  "  she  did,  as  soon  as  she  found 
out  you  were  Mr.  Templemore." 

*'  Oh !  of  course  not  before,"  ironically  re- 
plied Mr.  Templemore ;  "  and  your  daughter, 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  she  raised  no  objection  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Templemore,  she  liked  you." 

"Ah!  to  be  sure;  an  excellent  reason. 
Thank  you  for  your  candor,  Mrs.  Courtenay," 
he  added,  sarcastically. 

He  turned  away,  but  his  mother-in-law  fol- 
lowed him  anxiously. 

"  Then  you  are  not  angry  with  Dora  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  Oh !  not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Templemore. 
"  I  am  too  happy  to  have  your  daughter  on  any 
terms  ! " 

The  words  were  very  bitter,  if  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay had  but  understood  them  rightly,  but  the 
mood  in  which  they  were  spoken  was  far  more 
bitter  still.  Love,  tenderness,  passion,  every- 
thing that  had  once  made  Dora  dear,  seemed 
to  have  vanished  in  the  humiliation  of  his  be- 
trayal. To  be  duped,  to  be  deceived,  to  be 
made  a  tool  and  a  jest  of — such  had  been  Mr, 
Templemore's  lot. 


CHAPTEE  XLL 

"  Miss  MooRE  is  very  anxious  to  speak  to 
you,  sir,"  said  Fanny,  meeting  her  master. 

"  Very  well,"  he  replied,  with  bitter  impa- 
tience, and,  retracing  his  steps,  he  went  back 
to  the  drawing-room. 

Miss  Moore  was  not  alone.  A  lady  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  attired  in  a  travelling- 
dress,  with  a  shawl  on  her  arm,  and  looking 
as  if  she  were  going  to  step  that  moment  into 
a  railway  carriage.  And  that  lady  was  Mrs. 
Logan.  She  laughed  at  Mr.  Templemore's 
amazed  look,  and  curtsied  to  him  with  mock 
politeness. 

"  Oh !  but  I  must  see  Mrs,  Luan  too,"  she 
said,  nodding  ironically,     "  I  am  not  afraid  of 


FLORENCE'S  EXPLANATION. 


225 


her  now,  though  I  was  so  silly  as  to  think  her 
mad,  you  know.  I  must  see  her  with  you,  Mr. 
Templemore." 

"  Never !  "  he  answered  angrily.  "  Mrs.  Luan 
leaves  this  house  to-day,  and  never  will  I  ad- 
dress her,  or  willingly  remain  five  seconds  in 
the  same  room  with  her." 

Miss  Moore  clasped  her  hands  and  said  piti- 
fully, "  I  knew  it  could  not  end  well ;  "  whilst 
Mrs.  Logan  exclaimed  scornfully,  "  Poor  Mrs. 
Luan  !  is  it  so  soon  over  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  angrily  at  these 
two  women.  Ilis  blood  was  boiling  within 
him,  and  seeing  Florence  fresh  as  a  rose,  and 
taunting  him  so  lightly  with  his  lost  liberty, 
he  forgot  her  wrong,  and  only  remembered 
that  her  folly  had  abetted  Mrs.  Luan's  cun- 
ning, and  helped  to  his  undoing. 

"  Dear  me,  Mr.  Templemore,  how  odd  you 
do  look  !  "  ironically  said  Florence.  "  Well,  I 
shall  not  trouble  you  long.  I  owe  you  an 
answer  to  a. question,  and  I  come  to  give  it.  I 
have  been  waiting  for  your  return  this  fort- 
night. I  would  not  write — letters  get  opened 
by  the  wrong  people,  and  not  delivered  some- 
times to  the  right  person.  I  am  getting 
shrewd  and  clever,  you  see.  Well,  I  must  not 
miss  the  train,  so  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  come 
to  the  point.  You  wanted  to  know,  when  I 
last  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  through 
whose  agency  I  had  entered  this  house  and 
surprised  you  with  Miss  Courtenay  on  the 
night  of  the  storm.  You  were  kind  enough 
to  suppose  that  I  bribed  the  servants.  Allow 
me  now  to  tell  you  that  the  person  who  ad- 
mitted me,  who  received,  and  guided,  and 
helped  me,  was  your  wife's  aunt.  To  her,  Mr. 
Templemore,  you  thus  owe  your  present  hap- 
piness, and  I  am  not  so  cruel  or  so  unjust  as 
to  rob  that  good  and  kind  Mrs.  Luan  of  your 
gratitude." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Logan,"  replied  Mr.  Temple- 
more, with  emphatic  bitterness,  "  you  fell  into 
a  trap,  and  now  that  you  see  it,  it  is  too  late." 


"  I  can't  help  it,"  she  said,  desperately. 
"You  might  as  well  tell  a  bird  not  to  be 
caught  as  tell  me  not  to  be  deceived.  Besides, 
why  did  you  let  them  deceive  you,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore ?  " 

His  color  deepened,  his  dark  eyes  flashed, 
he  bit  his  lip  to  check  the  angry  words  that 
might  have  come  up  as  she  put  the  taunting 
question.  Ay,  he  too  had  been  snared  by  the 
net  of  the  fowler,  and  its  meshes  were  woven 
thick  around  him.  Adieu  to  a  no'ole  life, 
adieu  to  liberty,  ay,  and  almost  adieu  to 
honor !  Never  more  should  his  footsteps  be 
free,  never  more  should  he  know  the  happy 
solitude  of  his  own  thoughts ;  he  was  tied,  till 
death  should  part  them,  to  that  girl  who,  in- 
nocent or  guilty,  had  stepped  in  between  him 
and  all  his  desires.  What  though  she  had 
wakened  in  him  the  folly  of  a  moment  ?  Was 
he  the  man  to  go  on  loving  a  woman  for  the 
soft,  shy  look  of  her  eyes  and  the  pretty  turn 
of  her  neck  ?  She  loved  him,  perhaps — she 
had  said  so,  at  least,  and  he  remembered . her 
fond  confession  with  a  sort  of  fury — but  had 
she  entrapped  him  because  of  that  love  ?  Had 
he  given  her  a  double  triumph  over  him — 
that  of  lirst  deceiving  his  judgment,  then  of 
conquering  his  proud  heart  ? 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  you  are  right,  Mrs.  Logan 
— I,  too,  have  been  cheated,  and  where  is  our 
remedy?  "  he  added,  the  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelling  with  anger,  as  he  felt  both  his  wrong 
and  his  powerlcssness  to  avenge  it.  "  Where 
is  our  remedy  ?  Wc  have  been  deceived  and 
betrayed.  Mrs.  Luan  was  the  arbitress  of  our 
fate,  though  we  knew  it  not,  and  we  must  bow 
to  her  decrees." 

"  Yes,  it  was  Mrs.  Luan's  doing,  but  it  was 
Dora  Courtenay'a  too,"  cried  Mrs.  Logan, 
with  her  old  jealous  anger.  "  She  planned 
it,  and  she  did  it,  Mr.  Templemore." 

lie  turned  pale  as  death,  and  moved  away 
from  her  side;  and  when  he  came  back  he; 
looked  at  her  and  Miss  Moore,  and  said  : 


226 


DOEA. 


"Do  not  say  it — do  not  believe  it,  Mrs. 
Logan.  She  is  my  wife.  You  made  her  such, 
remember  that,  and  also  that  her  honor  and 
mine  are  one." 

"  You  want  me  to  be  silent ! "  she  cried. 
"  I  will  not— I  will  not,  Mr.  Templemore.  The 
world  shall  know,  and  the  world  shall  judge 
between  her  and  me." 

"  Do  as  you  please.  You  will  find  my  wife 
guarded  by  something  to  which  the  world, 
skeptical  though  it  may  be,  ever  adds  faitli — 
the  respect  of  her  husband." 

"  Your  wife !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Logan,  turn- 
ing pale  at  something  in  the  tone  with  which 
he  uttered  the  word  "wife." — "Yes,  I  know 
she  is  your  wife,  Mr.  Templemore,  and  you  are 
newly  married,  too,  and,  of  course,  your 
honeymoon  not  being  over — " 

She  ceased,  and  looked  at  him.  The  blood 
had  ruahed  up  to  his  very  brows — his  very 
heart  was  thrilled  at  the  remembrance  of  his 
lost  happiness.  He  could  not  help  it.  A  pas- 
sion, even  though  it  be  but  two  weeks  old, 
cannot  be  conquered  at  once  in  a  man's  heart ; 
and  as  Florence  spoke,  there  came  back  to 
him,  not  the  remembrance  of  the  love  which 
had  bound  them — not  the  resentment  of  the 
fraud  by  which  they  had  been  divided,  but 
fervid  and  sudden,  like  the  glimpse  of  a  warm 
Bummer  landscape,  the  memory  of  those  two 
impassioned  weeks  which  he  had  given  to  an- 
other woman.  Florence  stood  before  him, 
beautiful,  angry,  and  jealous,  and  he  saw 
Dora,  pale,  beseeching,  and  sorrowful — Dora, 
with  love  in  her  upraised  eyes  and  her  parted 
lips.  He  saw  her,  do  what  he  would ;  but 
with  angry  wonder  he  also  asked  himself 
what  brought  her  image  before  him  then,  why 
days  had  been  stronger  than  years,  and  why 
he  thought  of  the  girl  who  had  ensnared  him, 
whilst  he  looked  at  the  chosen  one  of  his 
heart  ? 

"  She  is  not  innocent  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Logan, 
breaking  off  from  sarcasm  into  impetuous  ac- 


cusation. "  Did  I  not  say  to  her,  '  Tell  me 
how  it  happened — explain  it,  Dora,  and  I  will 
believe  you,'  and  did  she  not  turn  away  with- 
out a  word — without  a  word  ?  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Templemore,  that  she  plotted  to  marry  you 
from  the  moment  she  entered  your  house. "  «_ 

"  She  did  not !  "  he  said,  sullenly. 

"  Then  M'hy  did  she  marry  you  ?  " 

"  She  had  her  fair  name  to  redeem,  thanks 
to  you. " 

"Ay,  she  risked  much,  but  she  won — she 
won,  and  I  lost ;  but  it  is  not  all  gain  to  her, 
Mr.  Templemore.  The  world  will  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  her  yet." 

"  Then  the  world  will  lie  ! "  cried  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, his  dark  cheek  crimsoning,  and  his 
voice  trembling  with  passion  as  the  pure  and 
pale  image  of  his  young  wife  seemed  to  rise 
before  him.  In  all  his  misery  it  was  some- 
thing to  know  that — so  far,  at  least,  she  was 
innocent.  Of  that  knowledge  nothing  and  no 
one  could  rob  him.  Mrs.  Logan  looked  at  him, 
then  clasped  her  hands  in  indignant  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Mr.  Templemore, "  she  said,  "  were  you 
Mrs.  Luan's  accomplice,  and  was  all  this  a  plot 
to  make  me  break  my  engagement,  and  set 
you  free  ?  " 

He  gazed  at  her  more  in  sorrow  than  in  an 
ger.  She  was  unchanged,  after  all.  She  read 
the  meaning  of  his  cold,  grave  looks,  but  she 
would  persist  in  this  new  outrageous  fancy. 

"  I  know  what  you  think, "  she  said,  speak- 
ing very  fast — "  you  think  she  is  the  same  silly 
creature  she  ever  was  ;  but  I  am  not  so  fool- 
ish as  you  imagine  me  to  be,  Mr.  Templemore^ 
and  I  say  that  you  always  liked  her — always, 
Mr.  Templemore — and  that,  if  she  had  been  a 
plain  girl,  you  would  not  have  married  her 
from  honor. " 

"  If  Dora  Courtcnay  had  been  a  plain  girl, 
you  would  never  have  suspected  her,  Mrs. 
Logan. " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know ;  but  tell  me,  if  you  can, 


HER  DEPARTURE. 


227 


•I  did  not  marry  her  for  love  ' — ^just  tell  nie 
that,  if  you  can,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"  I  decline  your  right  to  put  such  a  ques- 
tion," he  coldly  answered  ;  "you  broke  our 
engagement,  Mrs.  Logan." 

She  sank  down  on  a  chair,  and  burst  into 
tears.  Mr.  Templemore  stood  by  her  side, 
and  as  he  beheld  her  sorrow,  he  looked  around 
him  with  mingled  grief  and  shame — the  shame 
which  a  noble  heart  feels  at  its  own  frailty. 
That  room,  those  pictures,  those  familiar 
objects,  all  seemed  to  upbraid  him  with  infi- 
delity. Here  he  had  been  calmly,  purely  blest. 
Here  gentle  love,  not  feverish  passion,  had 
held  him  in  tender  bonds.  Here  an  innocent, 
though  not  brilliant  woman,  had  loved  him — 
here  it  had  been  sweet  to  sit  with  her  day  after 
day,  forestalling  the  peace  of  marriage,^  and 
not  taking  into  marriage  the  troubled  joy  of 
unwedded  love. 

Florence  wept  on  as  if  her  heart  would 
break,  but  dull  and  heavy  felt  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  heart.  He  did  not  love  her — he  did 
not  love  his  wife — he  loved  no  woman  then. 
Twice  love  had  cost  him  so  dear,  that  now  he 
felt  as  if  he  were  too  poor  ever  to  buy  it  back 
again.  The  tears  of  Florence  pained  him,  but 
so  would  those  of  Eva  if  they  had  had  the 
same  bitter  cause  to  flow.  With-  a  sort  of 
wonder  at  his  own  coldness,  he  remembered 
how  dear  this  wronged  woman  had  once  been, 
and  now  he  could  gaze  on  her  as  if  from  a  re- 
mote shore.  His  love  was  dead,  and  dead, 
too,  felt  that  other  love  which  had  suddenly 
flowed  between  them,  and  wrought  in  a  few 
weeks  the  work  of  time. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  said  Mrs.  Logan,  rising 
as  she  spoke. 

Even  as  she  said  it,  the  door  opened,  and 
Dora  entered  the  room.  Miss  Moore  looked 
scared,  Florence  defiant,  and  Mr.  Templemore 
turned  crimson.  Dora  looked  at  them  quietly. 
Whatever  she  might  feel,  no  token  of  it  ap- 
peared on  her  pale  face.     No   wonder,   no 


anger,  no  jealous  indignation  were  to  be  read 
there. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Richard, "  she  said, 
with  a  proud  and  tranquil  smile  ;  "I  did  not 
know  you  were  engaged."  And,  bowing  to 
Mrs.  Logan,  she  passed  on.  Slowly  and 
leisurely  she  crossed  the  long  drawing-room 
leaving  it  by  another  door  than  that  through 
which  she  had  entered.  Mr.  Templemore 
could  not  help  looking  after  her.  She  might 
be  an  adventuress  and  a  schemer,  but  she 
would  never,  if  jealous,  have  betrayed  that 
jealousy  by  watching  her  lover  ;  she  would 
•never  have  come  to  that  lost  lover's  house  and 
humbled  her  pride  so  far  as  to  reproach  him, 
or  to  accuse  her  more  fortunate  rival.  Yes, 
she  still  had,  even  in  her  humiliation,  that 
cold  charm  which  reserve  and  pride  give  a 
woman,  and  which  allures  man  far  more  than 
the  fondest  seduction.  Florence  felt  stung, 
for  she  saw  that  look,  and  half  read  it.  Dora's 
sun  might  be  under  a  cloud  just  then  ;  but  a 
wife's  day  is  a  long  one,  and  in  how  calm,  how 
cold  a  voice  she  had  called  him  "Rich- 
ard ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon !  "  exclaimed  Florence, 
bitterly ;  "  I  came  to  enlighten  you,  but  find 
you  enlightened.  I  might  have  spared  myself 
the  trouble  of  coming ;  but  you  see,  being  silly 
and  foolish  as  ever,  I  thought  I  had  but  to 
speak  to  confound  Mrs.  Luan  and  justify  my- 
self, even  though  it  was  too  late." 

Mr.  Templemore  could  not  help  feeling  a  pity 
both  tender  and  deep  for  this  beautiful  but 
very  foolish  creature  as  she  spoke  thus.  She 
had  no  judgment,  no  pride,  no  dignity,  no  gen- 
erosity even,  but  she  had  been  shamefully 
wronged,  and  it  stung  him  that  he,  who  had 
once  so  loved  her,  should  have  been  made  the 
instrument  of  that  wrong.  Dora  would  never 
have  acted  thus.  But  surely  her  very  folly 
ought,  like  a  child's,  to  have  made  Florence 
sacred  to  generous  hearts,  for  how  could  a  crea- 
ture so  frivolous  resist  even  the  most  transpar 


228 


DORA. 


ent  artifice,  or  save  hereelf  from  perfidy? 
There  was  indignation,  there  was  sorrow  and 
emotion  in  Mr.  Tcmplemore's  voice  as  he  now 
said  to  her : 

"  Good-by,  Florence— God  bless  you  !  We 
are  cousins ;  we  have  been  friends,  and  we 
were  to  have  been  more.  Let  not  the  base- 
ness which  parted  us  so  prevail  as  to  break  the 
old  tie.  You  have  no  brother  to  protect  you, 
DO  near  relative  to  befriend  you,  but  remember 
that  you  have  me." 

Mrs.  Logan  did  not  answer,  but  her  color 
deepened,  and  as  she  stood  with  her  hand 
clasped  in  his,  she  thought,  looking  at  the 
floor,  "Ah!  if  Dora  were  to  die — but  she  is 
sure  to  live.  Good-by,  Miss  Moore,"  she 
added  aloud. 

Miss  Moore,  who  had  prudently  kept  her 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  sobbed  a  good-by, 
which  darkened  Mr.  Teraplemore's  face.  How 
he  hated  all  this  !  How  bitterly  he  felt  his 
lost  privacy !  He  said  not  a  word  to  detain 
Florence.  He  went  down  with  her  and  accom- 
panied her  to  the  gate,  where  a  carriage  was 
waiting.  She  entered  it,  he  saw  it  drive  away, 
then  he  walked  down  the  sunburnt,  dusty  road, 
brooding  over  his  odious,  intolerable  wrong. 
He  had  been  cheated  to  save  John  Luan  from 
a  poor  marriage — also  for  his  money.  Such 
things  take  place  in  life  daily ;  Mr.  Temple- 
moic  had  often  seen  them,  and  looked  on  with 
mingled  scorn  and  pity  for  the  victim.  And 
now  the  case  was  his.  These  three  women 
had  ensnared  him  as  only  women  can  ensnare 
man,  with  the  subtle  arts  which  nature  has 
given  then-Hox  as  tlie  compensation  for  wcak- 
ncns.  Mr.  Teraplemore  had  a  credulous,  gen- 
erous nature,  loi)tli  to  suspect;  a  nature  which 
made  him  liable  to  deceit,  and  he  knew  it,  and 
could  laugh  at  it  once  the  fii-st  vexation  of  dis- 
covery was  over.  But  he  had  never  thought 
the  deceit  would  take  this  asrect,  or  that  the 
deceiver  could  wear  Dora  Courtenay's  face. 
Tlie  anguish  of  that  tiiought  overpowered  his 


fortitude,  and  conquered  even  wrath.  His 
whole  flesh  quivered  with  the  pain,  and  he 
stood  still,  mastered  by  grief,  and  unable  to 
go  on.  When  he  looked  around  him,  Mr. 
Templemore  found  that,  led  by  habit,  a  more 
faithful  guide  than  love,  his  steps  had  brought 
him  to  Mrs.  Logan's  door. 

Again  the  house  was  closed  and  silent.  Flor- 
ence was  really  gone  this  time — she  was  gone, 
after  having  made  Dora's  guilt  deeper  and 
plainer.  She  was  gone,  and  never,  unless  in 
some  great  crisis,  must  Dora's  husband  cross 
that  once  friendly  threshold,  or  enter  tiiose 
once-loved  rooms,  now  haunted  with  the  spec- 
tre of  the  past.  With  cold  and  gloomy  eyes 
he  looked  at  that  silent  dwelling.  If  Florence 
could  have  seen  him  then,  she  would  have 
known  it  was  not  her  loss  that  had  brought 
that  dark  meaning  to  his  face ;  if  she  could 
have  read  bis  heart  she  would  have  felt  more 
jealous  of  his  grief  than  she  had  felt  of  his  brief 
happincs.^. 

Dora  had  said  it  truly — his  love  for  her  was 
man's  passion  for  youth  and  that  beauty  which 
his  eyes  see  in  a  loved  woman  ;  but  a  noble 
nature  is  the  alchemy  which  transmutes  the 
baser  metal  into  pure  gold  ;  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  love  for  his  young  wife  could  not  live 
on  the  fleeting  charms  which  had  subdued 
him.  He  wanted  to  revere,  he  wanted  to  trust ; 
and  now  that  he  could  do  neither,  his  love  felt 
expiring — but  in  what  throes — in  what  ago- 
nies !  He  roused  himself  from  that  mood,  both 
passionate  and  bitter — he  walked  back  to  Les 
Roches.  He  had  thought  enough  over  his 
wrong.  It  was  clear,  it  was  certain,  it  was 
irremediable. 

"  Now  I  must  see  my  wife,"  be  thought. 
His  wife !  Oh !  bitter,  insupportable 
thought !  She  was  his  wife.  It  was  the  fond- 
est name  she  had  heard  from  him — the  most 
tender  he  had  found  it  possible  to  give  her, 
and  now  it  sounded  so  dreary,  bo  ominous,  so 
fatal ! 


"A  SEVERE  TRIAL." 


229 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

"When  Dora  left  John  Luan's  room  she  tried 
to  think,  but  she  could  not.  She  went  down 
to  the  garden,  and  walking  along  one  of  its 
gravel  paths,  she  bade  herself  be  calm — and 
calmness  would  not  come  at  her  bidding.  Her 
misery  was  so  new  that  she  could  not  believe 
in  it  yet — not  at  least  with  that  •  settled  belief 
which  we  give  to  great  and  undoubted  calami- 
ties. It  flowed  upon  her  like  a  torrent,  stun- 
Ding  and  overwhelming  her,  ere  it  carried  her 
away  down  to  the  dark  deep  waters  whence 
there  was  no  returing.  For  if  Mr.  Temple- 
more  believed  her  guilty,  she  could  see  no 
escape  from  her  grief — nay,  she  would  accept 
of  none.  He  could  no  more  detest  the  pro- 
faned tie  that  would  bind  them  than  she 
would.  If  love  be  not  reverence  and  honor,  it 
is  nothing  to  the  pure  and  the  proud.  But 
could  she  have  lost  his  esteem  ?  Was  it  pos- 
sible ?  No,  he  was  staggered  and  deeply  hurt  ? 
and  perhaps  even  he  could  love  her  no  more, 
so  great  was  his  sense  of  his  wrong — but  how 
could  he  doubt  her  ?  It  was  a  sweet  and  aveng- 
ing thought,  that  though  no  longer  adored,  she 
must  be  honored.  Let  love  be  lost — there  are 
many  such  bitter  wrecks  in  life — ^but  let  her 
innocence  be  confessed. 

"  His  liking  will  go  back  to  Florence," 
thought  Dora,  and  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes, 
and  her  heart  swelled  ;  "  but  he  must  do  me 
justice.  There  will  be  a  great  darkness  be- 
tween us — it  may  last  years — but  light  will 
return,  as  morning  follows  night ;  and  though 
age  should  have  come  and  youth  fled  in  the 
meanwhile,  his  love  shall  be  welcome  were 
it  but  for  the  sake  of  the  two  happy  weeks  he 
has  given  me.  But  he  must  do  me  justice — 
oh  !  he  must !  " 

She  turned  back  toward  the  house.  She 
wanted  to  see  him — to  speak  to  him  that 
moment.  She  felt  upon  her  a  flow  of  proud 
and  tender  eloquence — of  words  that  would 


come  from  her  heart,  and  must  needs  reach 
his.  She  asked  where  he  was.  In  the  draw- 
ing-room, said  Fanny  ;  but  she  did  not  add 
that  Florence  was  with  him.  The  blow  fell 
full  upon  Dora  when  she  saw  these  two  ;  and 
calm  though  she  looked,  her  heart  was  bitter 
to  overflowing  when  she  left  them.  He  was 
with  Mrs.  Logan !  If  she  could  have  avoided 
one  enemy,  she  could  not,  it  seems,  escape 
the  other.  If  her  aunt  had  not  spoken, 
Florence  would.  She  went  up  to  her  own 
room — it  was  vacant.  The  sun  shone  in 
through  the  open  window,  and  the  breeze 
fluttered  the  muslin  curtains ;  but  no  fond 
husband  sat  in  the  arm-chair  waiting  for  his 
wife's  return !  He  was  below  with  Mrs. 
Logan ! 

"  I  must  dress  for  dinner,"  thought  Dora 
with  a  sigh. 

She  shook  out  her  long  hair,  and  began 
combing  it  slowly.  A  gleam  of  sunshine  fell 
on  the  glowing  tresses  and  turned  them  into 
gold,  and  Dora  remembered  how  one  morning, 
at  Deenah,  her  husband,  coming  in  upon  her 
and  finding  her  thus,  had  admired  that  beauti- 
ful hair,  and  lifting  it  up  with  a  caressing 
hand,  had  said  it  was  matchless. 

"  He  loved  me  then ! "  thought  Dora. 
"  Yes,  he  loved  me  then  ! " 

And  was  all  that  over  ?  She  could  not  be- 
lieve it.  It  is  so  hard  to  fall  asleep  a  queen, 
and  waken  a  beggar.  She  hoped,  but  that 
hope  died  as  the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore  entered  the  room.  With  her  two 
hands  she  parted  her  long  hair,  put  it  back 
from  her  face,  and  looking  at  him  calmly,  she 
said  : 

"  How  ill  you  look,  Richard  !  What  ails 
you  ?  " 

She  could  put  the  question. 

"  Something  does  ail  me,"  he  replied, 
"  something  which  I  need  not  tell  you, 
Dora." 

"You  have   seen   Mrs.   Logan,"  she   said, 


230 


DORA. 


wilfully  misunderstanding  him,  "  but  I  am 
not  jealous." 

She  said  it,  and  she  looked  it  so  thoroughly 
that  he  felt  strong. 

"  Mrs.  Logan  told  me  nothing  I  did  not 
know,"  he  said,  very  coldly. 

"  And  what  do  you  know  ?  "  asked  Dora, 
with  a  proud,  sad  smile. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  enter  on  that  subject," 
he  replied ;  "I  do  not  wish  to  wound,  or 
offend,  or  even  sepm  to  accuse  you,  Dora." 

"  Accuse  me  ! — of  what,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  " 

"Of  nothing.  I  tell  you  I  do  not  wish  it. 
You  are  my  wife — I  do  not  forget  it ! " 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  looked  at  him. 
"Was  this  her  fond,  impassioned  husband  ? 
"Was  this  the  man  who  for  two  weeks  at  least 
had  adored  her  ?  She  was  hi.'?  wife,  and  he 
did  not  forget  it.  That  was  the  end.  She 
had  been  the  toy,  the  pleasure  of  an  hour,  the 
sultana  of  a  day,  but  he  was  no  Eastern 
despot,  he  was  a  Christian  gentleman ;  and 
there  was  the  law,  too,  and  she  was  his  wife, 
and  he  did  not  forget  it. 

"  God  help  me  !  "  was  all  she  said,  or  could 
say. 

He  looked  at  her.  He  had  denied  her 
guilt  to  Florence  ;  but  in  his  heart  he  believed 
it.  He  believed  that  she  had  been  her  aunt's 
tacit  accomplice,  and  that  she  had  betrayed 
him,  perhaps  for  ambition,  perhaps  for  love. 
"Whichever  it  was,  he  felt  her  prey  and  her 
victim.  It  was  not  in  Mr.  Templemore's  na- 
ture to  think  that,  and  not  resent  it.  He 
almost  hated  her  just  then,  not  merely  for 
the  fraud  which  she  had  abetted,  but  because 
she  had  shaken  the  very  foundation  of  faith 
within  him.  If  she  was  false — who  was  true  ? 
But  bitter  though  his  resentment  was,  he  was 
master  of  himself  now,  and  lie  scorned  to  be- 
tray it;  the  magnanimity  of  his  nature  re- 
volted at  the  thought  of  crushing  that  hum- 
bled woman,  and  there  was  pity  in  his  tone — 
a  pity  which  stung  his  wife,  as  he  said — 


"  Dora,  this  is  a  severe  trial ;  let  us  go 
through  it  as  wisely  as  we  can — we  have  a 
whole  lifetime  before  us.    Let  us  be  patient ! " 

"  I  would  give  my  life  to  set  you  free,"  she 
replied  in  a  low  tone ;  "  I  would  give  my  life, 
Mr.  Templemore,  that  the  last  three  weeks  had 
never  been  ! " 

No  other  word  of  deprecation  or  regret 
passed  her  lips.  Mr.  Templemore  saw  no 
signs  of  genuine  sorrow  or  repentance  in  his 
wife ;  nothing  but  pride  and  sin — defiant, 
though  conquered  and  revealed. 

"Dora,"  he  said  again,  "this  is  a  cruel 
trial ;  perhaps  we  could  not  pass  through  it 
safely  if  I  were  to  remain  here.  I  do  not  wish 
the  wrong  I  have  suffered  to  make  me  forget 
the  relation  in  which  we  stand  to  each  other. 
Therefore,  I  shall  go  away  for  a  time.  "When 
I  return  we  shall  both  have  learned  to  be  silent 
on  a  subject  which  must  never  be  mentioned 
between  us." 

He  spoke  very  coldly,  "  When  I  return ! " 
No  gleam  of  joy  shone  in  his  eyes,  but  dull 
and  heavy  remained  his  look,  as  the  words 
were  uttered.  He  bore  his  burden  as  patiently 
as  he  could,  but  it  was  a  burden,  and  in  his 
heart  he  hated  it.  Again  she  clasped  her 
despairing  hands ;  she  raised  her  eyes  to 
heaven  in  wondering  appeal  at  his  injustice 
and  her  misery. 

"  I  am  not  jealous,"  she  said,  "  but  there  are 
wrongs  beyond  endurance,  and  this  is  one. 
You  married  me  two  weeks  ago,  and  now  my 
presence  is  irksome  to  you,  and  you  go.  I 
am  not  jealous,  but  if  you  had  married  Flor- 
ence, would  you  treat  her  so  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  married  her,"  he  sternly  replied, 
his  cheek  flushing  with  anger,  "  I  should  not, 
at  least,  have  been  cheated  into  it." 

Dora  felt  tried,  judged,  and  condemned, 
everything  which  a  human  being  can  feel  in 
the  way  of  condemnation,  as  he  said  this. 
Duty  would  bring  him  back  to  her,  but  love 
was  over.     She  had  no  hope  to  win  that  back, 


THE  WORD  OF  HONOR. 


231 


but  she  made  a  desperate  effort  to  save  lier 
honor. 

"  Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said,  '*  your  wrong 
is  great;  but  so  is  mine.  I  am  a  proud 
woman !  Then  imagine,  if  you  can,  my  shame 
and  my  humiliation.  Your  gifts,  your  caresses, 
y.our  tenderness  can  only  sting  me,  now  that  I 
know  treachery  and  fraud  made  them  mine.  I 
have  said  it  already ;  I  say  it  again — I  would 
gladly  die  to  give  you  back  your  liberty." 

Her  pale  face  was  very  fine ;  there  was  a 
light  in  her  eyes,  and  a  proud  sniile  on  her 
lips,  which  went  to  her  husband's  very  heart. 
The  embers  of  love  were  there  still,  and  it 
would  have  taken  very  little — a  few  caresses, 
a  few  fond  words — to  kindle  the  old  flame 
anew,  and  subdue  him.  But  Dora  was  a 
proud  woman,  as  she  said — one  whom  sus- 
picion wronged,  and  she  could  not  do  that. 
Not  to  secure  an  eternity  of  love  could  she 
now  have  thrown  her  arms  around  the  neck 
of  the  man  on  whom  she  had  been  forced,  and 
who  80  plamly  thought  her  an  accomplice  in 
the  fraud.  Some  questions  are  not  questions 
of  will  merely,  but  also  of  power,  and  the 
power  to  do  that  was  wanting.  Her  coldness 
was  fatal  to  her  cause.  Mr.  Templemore  could 
reconcile  all  she  said  with  guilt,  and  though 
the  thought  of  that  guilt  wrung  and  tortured 
him,  he  could  not  dismiss  it.  Had  not  her 
aunt  declared  it? — had  not  her  mother  be- 
trayed it? — had  not  Florence  asserted  it?  and 
did  not  his  own  judgment  confirm  it  ?  "Was  it 
possible  that  such  a  plot  could  bo  carried  on 
under  her  eyes  for  her  benefit,  and  that, 
though  warned  from  the  beginning,  she  should 
never  suspect  it  ?  Oh  !  that  he  could  believe 
her  to  be  so  simple  and  so  guileless !  But  he 
could  not,  and  his  agony  spoke  in  the  very 
tones  of  his  voice  as  he  said : 

"  Oh !  Dora,  Dora,  how  could  you  allow  it  ? 
— ^how  could  you  die  so  to  your  better  self? 
I  had  such  faith  in  you  !  If  there  was  a  being 
whom  I  respected,  it  was  you ;  you  seemed  to 


me  so  pure,  so  stainless.  I  could  have  placed 
my  honor  in  your  keeping,  and  placed  it  blind- 
fold. And  oh !  that  you  should  have  come 
to  this !  Would  to  Heaven  that  all  else  had 
perished,  and  that  I  stood  a  ruined  and  penni- 
less man,  with  Eva  and  you,  so  I  still  had  that 
innocent  wife,  whom  I  looked  at  sleeping  this 
morning ! " 

She  could  not  bear  this.  Her  pride  melted 
before  the  sight  of  his  grief.  Looking  up  to 
heaven,  she  said,  passionately,  "I  am  inno- 
cent ! — oh  !  believe  that  I  am  innocent ! — only 
believe  that,  and  love  her,  if  you  like.  Look 
at  me,  Mr.  Templemore,  and  believe  that  I  am 
innocent." 

He  looked  at  her  as  she  aSked,  but  he  only 
read  love  and  despair  in  her  face  ;  he  did  not 
see  innocence  there,  but  with  a  deep,  sad  sigh, 
he  made  one  desperate  effort  for  belief. 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  "  I  do  not  wish  to  wound 
or  offend  you,  but  tell  me  this :  Is  it  true  that 
when  you  came  here  for  the  first  time,  Mrs.  Luan 
promised  that  you  should  become  my  wife  ?  " 

Dora  felt  the  blow,  but  she  replied,  calmly, 

"  She  predicted — she  did  not  promise  it." 

Her  lips  quivered  as  she  uttered  the  words. 
He  pitied  her,  and  made  no  comment  upon 
them. 

"  Is  it  true,"  he  continued,  "  that  when  Flor- 
ence asked  you  what  had  taken  me  to  you 
that  night,  you  refused  to  reply  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  she  answered,  and  she  smiled 
rather  proudly. 

There  was  a  pause,  then  he  said,  gently, 

"  Good-by,  Dora." 

As  he  uttered  the  word,  the  smile  passed 
from  her  face,  as  sunshine  passes  from  the  sky. 
Her  eyes  darkened  in  the  intensity  of  their 
gaze  ;  her  lips  turned  white,  and  her  features 
grew  rigid  as  stone  or  death.  From  head  to 
foot  she  shook  like  an  aspen-leaf  in  a  strong 
wind,  but  she  looked  bravely  in  his  face. 
The  storm  that  might  rend  her  asunder  should 
not,  at  least,  conquer  her. 


232 


DORA. 


"  Then  you  are  going  ?  "  she  said — "  on 
such  testimony  you  condemn  me!  I  am  a 
schemer  and  a  plotter  in  your  eyes — a  woman 
who  will  do  anything  to  win  a  husband  !  Did 
I  ever  seeli  you,  Mr.  Templemore  ? — was  I  for- 
ward or  alluring  ?  " 

"No,"  he  said,  with  sudden  energy.  "If 
ever  a  girl  was  free  from  that  vice,  you  were. 
If  ever  I  saw  modesty  in  woman,  it  was  in  you." 

"  That  much  justice  you  do  me,"  she  said, 
and  her  lip  quivered  a  little  as  she  sijoke ;  "  but 
perhaps  you  think  me  mercenary — perhaps  you 
think  that,  being  a  poor  girl,  I  must  needs  covet 
being  a  rich  man's  wife,  Mr.  Templemore  ?  Mr. 
Templemore,"  she  said,  the  tears  rushing  to  her 
eyes,  and  her  voice  broken  by  the  weeping  she 
could  not  check,  "  I  know  a  poor  girl  who  met 
a  poor  man,  or  one  who  seemed  such,  and  who 
liked  him  though  he  looked  a  man  of  broken 
fortunes.  I  know  a  poor  girl  who  thought 
that,  if  he  liked  her  too,  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  lead  a  life  of  toiland  poverty  with  him,  and 
whose  heart  ached  sorely  on  the  day  that 
proved  him  wealthy.  That  girl — "  She  could 
not  go  on;  she  buried  her  face  in  her  Lands, 
and  when  she  Itoked  up,  she  was  in  her  hus- 
band's arms,  and  his  eyes  were  dim.  "  No, 
you  must  not  kiss  me,"  she  said,  turning  her 
head  away;  "I  will  uot'be  caressed  if  I  can- 
not be  loved,  and  I  will  not  be  loved  if  I  am 
not  honored.  I  am  a  proud  woman,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, and  I  warned  you  not  to  take  me.  I  did 
not  want  to  marry  you — it  frightened  me — I 
ran  away  from  you,  and  you  followed,  and 
persuaded  me,  and  now  I  am  your  wife.  If 
heaven  and  earth  were  to  tell  me  that  you  had 
broken  your  honor,  would  I  believe  them  ? 
Then,  as  I  trust  you,  so  must  you  trust  me — 
so  must  you  think  me  incapable  of  a  falsehood, 
implied  or  spoken.  You  must  trust  me  even 
though  every  voice  should  condemn  me — do 
you  ?  " 

She  turned  upon  him  suddenly,  with  a  flush 
on  her  cheek  and  a  light  in  her  eyes,  that 


made  him  feel  both  dazzled  and  bewitched. 
He  had  never  loved  her  more  than  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  could  not  resist  her — he  felt  sub- 
dued and  won  over.  With  tears  and  caresses 
he  said  he  loved  her — that  he  believed  in  her  ; 
in  her  his  wife  dear,  honored,  and  beloved. 

"  And  you  will  not  go  ?  "  said  Dora,  smiling 
through  her  tears. 

Go  !  he  had  forgotten  all  about  going — all 
about  doubt  and  estrangement.  He  was  her 
lover  once  more — her  fond,  enamoured  lover, 
and  what  could  part  them  ?  But  there  are 
many  jealous  recesses  in  a  woman's  heart. 
This  sudden  return  of  tenderness  was  not  what 
Dora  wanted — for  this,  perhaps,  she  had  never 
lost.  She  gently  moved  away  from  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore's  side ;  she  put  her  two  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  and  looked  up  in  his  face.  -  Never 
had  he  seen  that  piercing  glance  in  her  soft 
bright  eyes. 

"Mr.  Templemore,"  she  said,  "give  me 
your  word  of  honor  that  there  is  not  a  doubt 
left  on  your  mind  against  me." 

Honor  !  there  is  something  strangely  solemn 
in  the  word.  It  is  more  than  a  mere  appeal  to 
truth,  and  sacred  though  that  be,  it  is  more 
than  truth.  Honor !  it  is  the  pure  stream 
from  which  some  of  our  noblest  virtues  spring- 
it  is  the  grace  of  manhood.  It  is  what  neither 
man  nor  woman  can  sully  nor  taint  in  vain. 
We  can  sin,  repent,  and  be  forgiven ;  but, 
upon  earth,  at  least,  a  lost  honor  can  never  be 
restored.  Mr.  Templemore  would  have  given 
anything  to  be  able  to  comply  with  his  wife's 
request.  Some  of  the  words  she  had  spoken 
had  stirred  the  very  depths  of  his  heart.  He 
would  have  given  her  anything — done  any- 
thing to  please  her  but  this.  And  this  he 
could  not — he  could  not.  He  could  not  give 
her  his  word  of  honor  that  no  shadow  of  doubt 
remained  on  his  mind  against  her. 

"Dora,"  he  said,  "  is  not  all  this  over?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  vaguely ;  "  it  is." 

She  had  seen  and  read  his  troubled  face, 


NO,    YOr    Ml  ST    NOT    KISS    ME.'^ 


p.  sa-i 


END  OF  THE  HONEYMOON. 


233 


and  she  could  read,  too,  the  very  tones  of  his 
voice,  so  fond,  and  yet  so  hesitating. 

"  Dora,"  he  said,  "  have  pity  on  me.  I  be- 
lieve in  you ;  I  know  you  arc  innocent  and 
good." 

*'  But  you  cannot  give  me  your  word  of 
honor ! "  she  said. 

He  took  a  few  turns  in  the  room.  He  felt 
dreadfully  agitated. 

"  Have  pity  on  me,"  he  said  again,  coming 
back  to  her.  "  You  would  despise  me  if  I 
could  utter  the  shadow  of  a  lie  to  please 
you." 

"  Yes,  I  should,"  she  replied  calmly.  She 
did  not  reproach  him — she  did  not  even  look 
at  him ;  but  Mr.  Templemore  felt  that  a  wall 
of  ice  had  risen  between  him  and  his  wife. 
He  could  better  forgive  the  sin  than  she  could 
forgive  the  doubt. 

He  looked  at  her  very  moodily. 

"  1  see  I  must  go,  after  all,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  she  replied,  apathetically. 

"  I  shall  soon  return,"  he  continued,  looking 
at  her ;  but  she  did  not  answer. 

And  so  they  must  part !  These  two,  who, 
but  a  while  back,  had  been  clasped  in  so  fond 
an  embrace,  must  part.  One  had  split  on  the 
rock  of  pride,  and  the  other  was  lost  in  shoals 
of  doubt,  and  the  waves  of  life  must,  for  a 
time,  at  least,  flow  between  them.  The  bond 
of  love  was  strong  still — strong  and  fervent ; 
but  the  nobler  bond  of  faith  was  broken. 

"  Yes,  I  must  go,"  he  said,  desperately ;  "  it 
is  best." 

Dora  had  not  believed  she  could  suffer  so 
much.  She  had  been  married  two  weeks — 
not  three — and  he  left  her  either  because  her 
presence  was  an  infliction  he  could  not  bear, 
or  because  the  conviction  of  her  guilt  was  one 
he  could  not  conquer.  All  wish  of  justifica- 
tion died  within  her.  She  felt  turned  to 
stone.  He  might  go,  he  might  stay;  not 
another  protest  of  innocence  could  now  pass 
her  lips. 


"  Good-by,"  he  said  again,  and  h(v  kissed 
her ;  alas !  how  coldly  now,  and  he  left  her. 

"  He  will  go  soon,"  she  thought ;  and,  having 
locked  herself  in,  she  went  to  the  window,  and 
stood  there  waiting.  She  looked  down  the 
road.  How  often  had  she  watched  for  his  re- 
turn when'he  had  no  thought  of  her !  She 
remembered  how  he  and  Florence  had  once 
entered  the  house  together.  She  remembered 
how  her  laughing  face  was  raised  to  his,  and 
how  their  two  sunlit  figures  dazzled  her  with 
their  brightness.  The  jealous  thrill  that  shot 
through  her  as  she  looked  at  them,  the  flush 
of  pain  which  rose  to  her  face  as  she  turned 
away  from  the  sight,  and  Eva's  wondering, 
"  Oh  !  how  red  you  are,  Cousin  Dora ! "  She 
remembered  them  every  one,  and  thinking  of 
all  she  had  suffered  for  the  sake  of  that  man, 
and  how  she  was  requited,  she  passionately 
wished  that  she  had  never  been  born. 

No  one  came  near  her.  Solitary  was  her 
bitter  hour.  Its  keenest  pang  was  soon  over. 
She  heard  the  carriage-wheels  grinding  on  the 
gravel,  she  saw  it  going  down  the  steep  road. 
She  sank  on  her  knees  and  looked  at  it 
through  blinding  tears,  and  when  it  had  van- 
ished she  remained  there  still  weeping,  how 
long  she  knew  not. 

When  Dora  rose,  at  length,  her  heart  felt 
changed  within  her — a  bitterness,  a  resent- 
ment were  there  which  even  his  accusation 
had  not  wakened.  "  Deserted,"  she  thought, 
"  betrayed,  wronged,  and  cast  away  at  the  end 
of  two  weeks ! " 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

It  was  thus  Mrs.  Luan  kept  her  promise  of 
making  Dora  Mr.  Templemore's  wife ;  but  her 
boon  had  been  fatal — like  that  of  the  evil 
spirit  in  the  legend,  it  had  turned  into  calam- 
ity, and  only  led  to  tbe  deepest  woe.  Mr. 
Templemore  was  gone;  ho  had  left  his  wife. 
Whether  in  doubt  or  iu  weariness,  in  coldness 


234 


DORA. 


of  heart  or  in  aversion,  for  howsoever  short  or 
how  long  a  time,  he  had  left  her.  It  was  best, 
no  doubt,  not  to  pass  from  such  fervid  affec- 
tion to  the  desolation  of  coldness  and  doubt ; 
it  was  best,  but,  oh !  how  dreary  ! 

"  And  Miss  Moore  and  Eva  are  gone  too, 
and  they  have  taken  away  Fido, "indignantly 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

Dora  smiled  bitterly.  The  dog  too !  And 
the  child  had  not  so  much  as  bid  her  good- 
by.  She  was  an  outcast  in  her  husband's 
house.  But  she  did  not  complain.  She  felt 
wrecked  on  a  shore  which  no  joy  could  reach, 
and  no  murmur  passed  her  lips.  It  was  so 
useless  to  repine.  "  I  suppose  it  is  all  right, 
after  all,"  thought  Mrs.  Courtenay,  seeing  her 
so  calm ;  and  when  they  met  that  evening  in 
the  garden,  whither  Dora  had  wandered  to 
seek  that  peace  which  came  not,  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay's  mind  was  full  of  another  theme. 

"  Dora,"  she  said,  mysteriously,  "  I  met 
Mrs.  Luan  here  awhile  back.  What  ails  her  ? 
How  came  she  to  leave  John  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  apathetically  replied  Dora. 
"What  should  ail  her?" 

"  Why  did  she  creep  along  that  avenue, 
Dora  ?  And,  when  she  saw  me,  why  did  she 
smile,  and  look  as  cunning  as  a  fox  ?  " 

Dora  put  her  hand  on  her  mother's  arm  and 
looked  at  her.  Each  saw  what  the  other 
meant,  and  Dora  at  length  said  it  in  covered 
speech. 

"  If  she  be  so,"  she  said,  "  she  has  been  so 
years." 

"  But  surely — surely,"  gasped  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay, "  Mr.  Tcmplemore  would  have  seen  it." 

"  Has  John  seen  it  ?  I  gave  him  a  hint 
once,  and  he  received  it  with  scorn.  No,  Mr. 
Templemore  could  not  see  it.  She  was  never 
the  same  when  he  was  by — never.  Every- 
thing was  against  me — everything." 

"  But,  Dora,  what  arc  we  to  do  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  looking  frightened.  "What 
are  we  to  do  ?  " 


"  Nothing,"  said  Dora. 

"  I  wish  Mr.  Templemore  were  here,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  looking  wistfully  at  her 
daughter. 

Dora  could  not  answer  this.  Even  her 
mother  felt  how  desolate  they  were  without 
him — how  his  presence  would  have  brought 
security  with  It,  how  his  absence  meant  uneasi- 
ness and  dread. 

"  The  first  time  he  took  me  in  his  arms," 
thought  Dora,  "  I  felt,  '  Now  have  I  found  a 
refuge  against  every  ill  man  can  inflict,  now 
God's  hand  alone  can  reach  me  here ! '  That 
was  on  our  wedding-day — not  a  month  back 
— and  now  where  is  he  ? — where  am  I  ?  " 

"  Dora  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  for  Dora'a 
tears  were  flowing. 

"  I  did  not  know  I  was  crying,"  she  said, 
trying  to  smile.     "  Do  not  mind  it,  mamma." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  all  right,"  began  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  hesitatingly. 

"  Hush  ! "  whispered  Dora.  "  Look  at 
aunt ! " 

She  did  not  see  them.  She  was  going  down 
an  avenue,  peeping  first  on  one  side  then  on 
the  other,  evidently  seeking  something  or 
some  one. 

"Why  has  she  left  John?"  asked  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Dora,  with  a 
wearied  sigh. 

At  that  moment  Mrs.  Luan  turned  round 
and  saw  them.  She  immediately  came  tow- 
ard them  with  a  cheerful  aspect. 

"  John  is  so  well,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have 
come  out  for  a  walk." 

Her  manner  was  calm  and  composed.  Dora 
looked  at  her,  and  thought  bitterly  :  "  Mad  ! 
she  is  not  rnad ;  but  she  hated  me  with  a 
deadly  hate,  for  John's  sake." 

They  entered  the  house  together.  Dora 
neither  looked  at  nor  spoke  to  her  aunt,  and 
Mrs.  Courtenay  whispered  confidentially,  as 
Mrs.  Luan  left  them  to  go  back  to  John — 


MRS.   LUAN'S  INSANITY. 


235 


"  I  dare  say  she  is  all  right,  after  all." 
The  two  ladies  retired  early ;  but  Dora  did 
not  retire  in  order  to  sleep.  She  long  stood 
on  the  balcony  of  her  room,  looking  at  the 
sky,  black  and  starless,  and  when  she  came  in 
she  did  not  go  to  bed  at  once.  She  sat  by 
her  toilet-table,  undid  her  hair,  and  looked  at 
herself  in  the  glass.  It  already  seemed  so  long 
ago  since  the  sad  face  she  saw  there  had  had 
so  bright  a  story.  Was  this  indeed  the  beg- 
gar-maid, the  girl  with  gray  eyes,  and  hair  of 
brown  gold,  whom  King  Cophetua  loved  ? 
Was  such  a  change  possible — was  it  credible? 
"  I  know  he  will  come  back,"  thought  Dora ; 
"but  that  is  not  it.  I  do  not  want  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore,  I  want  my  husband,  and  something 
tells  me  that  I  shall  find  him  no  more.  If 
he  could  forgive — I  cannot.  And  yet,  who 
knows  ?  If  he  should  come  back  as  he  said 
he  would — if  sitting  thus  I  were  to  see  the 
door  open — " 

She  paused  in  her  thoughts.  The  door  was 
opening — she  did  not  hear  it,  so  softly  did  it 
move  on  its  hinges — it  was  known  later  that 
they  had  been  oiled — but  a  wax  light  burned 
on  her  toilet-table,  and  its  pale  gleam  reflected 
in  the  glass  showed  her,  though  dimly,  every 
comer  of  the  vast  room.  Thus  she  saw  the 
door  open — her  heart  beat — could  it  be  her 
husband  ? — no,  it  was  Mrs.  Luan's  head  she 
saw  in  the  aperture.  A  sudden  and  deadly 
fear  paralyzed  Dora.  Her  heart  beat  no 
longer,  her  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  her 
mouth,  she  was  voiceless  and  motionless.  The 
door  continued  to  open,  Mrs.  Luan  stepped  in, 
but  no  velvety-footed  creature  could  have 
made  less  noise  than  she  did.  Swiftly  she 
shut  the  door  behind  her,  and,  as  Dora,  who 
had  not  stirred,  saw  distinctly,  she  bolted  it. 
"  She  has  come  to  murder  me  !  "  thought  Dora. 
She  did  not  look  round,  she  did  not  cry,  but 
as  Mrs.  Luan  slowly  crept  toward  her  with 
the  serpentine  motion  of  a  feline  beast,  she 
suddenly  blew   out  the  light,   and  stepping 


round  the  toilet-table,  was  out  on  the  balcony 
in  a  moment. 

A  baffled  cry  of  rage  burst  from  the  mad 
woman  when  she  thus  suddenly  found  herself 
in  the  darkness  of  the  vast  room.  She  groped 
about  for  Dora,  shrieking  in  her  frenzy ;  and 
Dora,  standing  on  the  balcony,  never  moved, 
never  spoke,  never  by  the  slightest  motion 
gave  her  enemy  the  least  clew  to  the  spot 
where  she  stood  sheltered  by  the  darkness  of 
the  night. 

But  Mrs.  Luan's  screams  had  roused  the 
house.  Dora  heard  exclamations  of  alarm  in 
the  gai'den,  on  the  staircase,  but  she  also 
heard  her  aunt  saying,  "  I  shall  get  you  ! — 
I  shall  get  you ! — you  are  out  on  the  bal- 
cony ! — I  shall  get  you  !  " 

She  heard  her  groping  near  the  toilet-table 
— within  a  few  paces  of  her — she  felt  the 
window  move,  and  still  she  had  self-command 
enough  to  keep  in  the  wild  scream  of  terror 
which  nearly  passed  her  lips.  Meanwhile  the 
sounds  of  help  came  nearer,  they  gathered 
round  her  door,  it  was  tried,  shaken  violently, 
then  burst  open.  Mrs.  Courtenay  and  the 
servants  rushed  in,  and  with  them  came  a 
flood  of  light.  Pale  as  death,  but-  still  calm, 
Dora  stepped  out  from  her  hiding-place,  and 
standing  with  the  crimson  window-curtains 
behind  her,  she  said,  pointing  to  Mrs.  Luan, 
who  crouched  and  cowered  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  "She  has  gone  mad  ! — take  cai'e! — she 
wanted  to  murder  me  ! " 

There  was  a  pause  of  wonder,  of  fear,  and 
doubt;  then  the  men  approached  the  mad 
woman.  The  struggle  was  violent,  but  brief 
and  silent.  Neither  Mrs.  Luan  nor  the  men 
who  tried  to  master  her  uttered  one  word.  In 
a  few  moments  they  had  succeeded,  and  Mrs. 
Luan,  firmly  bound,  sat  silent  and  sullen  in 
Dora's  chair.  Dora  gtood  and  looked  at  her, 
and  as  she  looked,  she  could  hear  John  laugh- 
ing up-stairs.  That  fierce,  wild  creature,  as 
dangerous  as  a  wild  beast,  and  as  fell  in  its 


236 


DORA. 


instincts,  was  the  mother  who  bad  borne  John 
Luan,  reared  him,  and  loved  him  with  such 
passionate  tenderness,  that  it  had  helped  to 
make  her  what  Dora  saw.  As  she  stood  thus 
gazing  at  her  moody  aunt,  with  the  dishevelled 
hair  falling  around  her  sullen  face,  Mrs.  Tem- 
plemore  heard  a  voice  near  her  saying,  "  Please, 
ma'am,  here  is  a  letter  Mr.  Templemore  left 
for  you.  Jacques  was  to  give  it,  but  forgot  it." 

Dora  started,  and  waking  from  her  dream, 
she  saw  Fanny.  With  a  trembling  hand  she 
took  her  husband's  letter  and  broke  the  seal. 
A  bundle  of  silk  notes  fell  out,  and  fluttered 
on  the  floor ;  but  Dora  did  not  heed  them. 
With  feverish  eagerness  she  read  the  first 
letter  Mr.  Templemore  had  written  to  her 
since  their  marriage.  It  was  brief,  cold,  but 
strictly  courteous.  Mr.  Templemore  placed  a 
large  sum  at  his  wife's  disposal,  and  informed 
her  that  he  should  expect  to  find  her  alone  on 
Lis  return  to  Les  Roches.  Dora  turned  very 
pale.  Money  and  her  mother's  banishment! 
— this  was  her  sentence.  He  had  gone  to 
seek  his  pleasure,  and  place  his  child  in  safety, 
and  he  had  left  her  at  the  mercy  of  whatever 
sorrow  or  evil  chance  might  come  in  his  ab- 
sence. Was  this  what  he  had  promised  on 
their  wedding-day  ?  Fanny  had  picked  up  the 
notes,  and  she  handed  them  to  her  mistress, 
bnt  even  as  she  put  them  back  in  the  envelope 
Dora  felt  that  her  resolve  was  taken.  "I 
will  die  before  I  eat  his  bread  or  live  on  his 
money,"  she  thought. 

Mrs.  Luan  now  spoke  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  have  made  a  lady  of  you,"  she  said — "  I 
have  made  a  lady  of  you,  Dora." 

"You  have,"  answered  her  niece,  looking 
at  the  madwoman  with  a  passion  of  grief  she 
could  not  control — "  you  have,  and  I  know 
the  cost." 

Even  as  she  said  it,  John  laughed  again  in 
his  room.  He,  too,  had  paid  the  price  of 
Dora's  elevation  to  the  rank  of  Mr.  Temple- 
inore's  wife. 


"  Oh  !  Dora,  Dora,"  pitifully  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  "  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  " 

Dora  looked  at  her  and  smiled — oh !  how 
sadly  ! — how  drearily ! 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

We  may  decree  a  thing  in  the  first  bitter- 
ness of  our  resentment,  and  Providence  may 
so  far  favor  us  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to 
fulfil  our  angry  desire ;  but  it  was  not  so  with 
Mr.  Templemore's  wife.  The  day  after  he  had 
left  Les  Roches,  Dora  received  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Ryan  enclosing  a  check  for  fifty  pounds. 
The  shares  of  the  Redmore  Mines  had  turned 
from  so  much  waste  paper  to  gold,  and  Mr. 
Ryan,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  joy,  wrote  to 
Miss  Courtenay,  advancing  a  sum  which  he 
considered  that  she  might  need.  That  she 
had  left  Les  Roches,  and  gone  back  to  Ma- 
dame Bertrand's  he  knew,  but  happiness  is 
selfish,  and  Dora  had  forgotten  to  tell  him  of 
her  marriage. 

"  People  should  send  cards,"  very  sensibly 
remarked  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

She  said  this  by  John's  sick-bed,  where  a 
nurse  had  now  taken  Mrs.  Luan's  place.  The 
young  man's  case  had  been  pronounced  des- 
perate, and  for  his  sake  Dora  had  resolved 
to  wait  till  all  was  over.  But  neither  was 
that  to  be.  The  peril  which  had  cost  her  so 
dear  passed  away.  John's  life  hung  on  a 
thread  for  a  few  days,  then  youth  and  strength 
prevailed,  and  he  came  back  to  life,  and,  alas ! 
too,  to  grief.  He  bore  his  sorrow  manfully, 
but  the  place  where  he  had  suffered  so  ter- 
tibly  was  hateful  to  him.  He  would  not  wait 
till  his  recovery  was  final  to  leave  Les  Roches, 
and  Dora  did  not  detain  him.  The  sooner 
all  was  over  the  better  it  would  be. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  had  been  very  unwell  since 
the  terrible  evening  on  which  her  sister-in- 
law's  insanity  had  broken  out,  and  Dora  went 


HER  SON'S  DEPARTURE. 


237 


no  farther  than  the  gate  of  Les  Roches  with 
her  cousin.  There  they  parted.  He  was  go- 
ing to  resume  a  life  of  hibor  shorn  of  every 
hope  which  had  once  made  it  dear,  and  he 
looked  at  her  in  sad  silence. 

Mrs.  Courtenay's  querulous  complaints  that 
Mr.  Templemore  did  not  write,  had  told  John 
a  sad  story,  which  Dora's  pale  face  now  com- 
pleted. He  knew  nothing  of  the  circum- 
stances which  had  attended  her  marriage, 
nothing  of  the  causes  which  had  estranged 
her  husband,  nor  of  his  own  connection  with 
her  grief;  but  that  grief  he  saw,  and  when 
she  stood  so  wan  and  languid  before  him,  he 
looked  at  her  with  sullen  and  jealous  sorrow. 
Who  was  that  cold  husband,  that  Dora  should 
loTB  him  thus  ?  What  right  had  that  stranger, 
that  man  whom  she  had  detested  years,  the 
successful  rival  who  had  laid  Paul  Courtenay 
in  his  grave,  thus  to  go  robbing  other  men, 
snatching  the  sweet  prizes  of  life  from  them — 
then  casting  them  away  so  ruthlessly  ?  For 
a  moment  John  Luan  was  his  mother's  son ; 
if  a  thought,  a  wish  of  his  could  have  an- 
nihilated Mr.  Templemore,  Dora's  husband 
would  have  ceased  to  exist.  What !  had  he 
lost  her  for  this  ?  Was  the  girl  whom  he 
had  loved  years,  about  whom  he  had  dreamed 
so  fondly,  whose  loss  had  brought  him  to 
death's  door,  was  she  to  be  treated  like  a 
cast-off  mistress  by  the  man  who  had  deprived 
him  of  all  joy  ?  "  If  I  could  kill  him  I  would  ! " 
thought  John  Luan,  setting  his  teeth.  Yes, 
he  would  gladly  have  murdered  Mr.  Temple- 
more just  then,  and,  of  course,  have  married 
his  widow. 

It  is  well  that  a  man's  feelings  are  not  al- 
ways spoken  ;  it  is  well,  too,  that  the  thoughts 
and  wishes  which  enter  his  heart  when  he  has 
left  the  door  open  to  the  tempting  devil  who 
comes  to  all  in  such  evil  hours — it  is  well, 
we  say,  that  these  abide  not,  unless  with  the 
dangerous  and  the .  bad.  John  Luan  was 
neither.      But  neither  was  he  very  good,  for 


good-nature  is  not  goodness.  He  could  be 
sullen  and  revengeful  when  ho  thought  himself 
wronged,  and  from  that  hour  he  hated  Mr. 
Templemore,  whom  he  had  not  loveJ  before. 

Something  of  this  Dora  saw,  for  she 
thought :  "  Yes,  John,  the  living  husband  has 
avenged  the  dead  brother  on  the  faithless 
sister  ;  "  but  all  she  said,  as  she  looked  down 
the  road  was — 

"  I  envy  you — I  envy  you,  John  Luan. 
Your  cares  are  heavy,  your  sorrows  are  cruel, 
and  you  are  alone,  and  yet  I  envy  you.  You 
can  go  forth  and  strive.  You  can  go  forth 
and  conquer,  perhaps." 

"  Conquer  what  ?  "  he  asked,  moodily. 

"  What  you  need,  John— forgetfulness." 

With  what  passionate  longing  she  looked 
down  that  white  road  which  wound  away  to 
the  busy  city  below  !  If  it  had  led  to  that  an- 
cient world  of  the  poets,  that  world  where 
Lethe  flowed,  her  gaze  could  scarcely  have 
been  less  intent  and  yearning  than  it  was.  It 
could  scarcely  have  taken  less  heed  than  it  did 
of  him.     He  saw  and  felt  it. 

"  I  must  go,"  he  said,  a  little  hurriedly. 
"  Good-by,  Dora." 

"  Good-by,"  she  replied,  listlessly. 

She  gave  him  her  cold  hand.  He  might  go, 
he  might  stay — John  felt  it  changed  nothing 
in  her  life.  He  walked  down  the  road,  fol- 
lowed by  the  servant  who  carried  the  carpet- 
bag, and  he  never  looked  back.  Yet  Dora  long 
watched  him.  Even  when  he  was  out  of  sight 
she  stood  there,  envying  him.  He  might  go 
away  and  strive,  as  she  had  said,  and  forget. 
"  If  I  could  but  forget,"  she  thought,  as  she 
at  length  turned  away.  "  Oh  !  if  I  but  could  ! " 
Her  heart  beat — her  whole  being  trembled. 
"  Forget  ! "  she  thought.  "  0  God,  forbid  that 
I  should  ever  forget  ! " 

And  she  was  right.  There  is  something  both 
passionate  and  sweet  in  the  memory  of  lost 
happiness.  It  is  one  of  the  few  sorrows  to 
which  we  chng.     Proserpina  never  forgot,  wc 


238 


DORA. 


are  told,  the  flowers  \TOich  she  was  gathering 
in  the  plains  of  Enna,  when  the  dark  king 
bore  her  away.  If  he  had  taken  her  to 
Olympus  itself,  and  not  to  Hades,  she  could 
not  have  forgotten  them.  Never  again  should 
there  have  been  such  perfumed  violets  and 
anemones  so  fair.  Goddess  though  she  was, 
and  immortal,  she,  too,  had  a  youth,  and  looked 
back  with  vahi  yearning  to  its  golden  gates 
closed  forever.  Time  could  not  wither,  age 
could  not  fade  her  beauty,  but  something 
there  had  been  for  her,  something  which  there 
could  be  no  more.  But  to  remember  is  not  to 
forgive,  unfortunately,  and  though  there  was 
a  smile  on  Dora's  lips  when  she  went  back  to 
her  mother,  there  was  also  a  settled  resolve  in 
her  heart.  She  found  Mrs.  Courtenay  much 
depressed. 

"  I  cannot  get  over  it,"  she  said  plaintively, 
in  answer  to  her  daughter's  question.  "  Poor 
Mrs.  Luan  !  I  miss  her  so,  Dora.  And  then 
Mr.  Templemore  stays  away  so  long." 

Dora  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  sat  with 
her  look  fixed  moodily  on  empty  space.  The 
walls  with  their  pictures,  the  brown  and  grave 
furniture  of  her  mother's  room,  the  window 
and  the  landscape  it  framed,  had  vanished 
from  her  view.  She  saw  a  sea-beaten  shore, 
a  rocky  coast,  a  low  village  straggling  along 
the  beach,  and  there  she  made  a  refuge  and  a 
home,  far  away  from  Mr.  Templemore's  house 
and  his  money. 

"Mamma,"  she  said  suddenly,  looking  up 
at  her  mother,  "  you  want  a  change,  and  you 
must  take  one." 

"Of  course  I  want  a  change,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay,  a  little  peevishly ;  "  and  if,  instead 
of  running  away,  Mr.  Templemore  had  stayed 
herC,  he  could  have  taken  us  somewhere." 

Never  was  unconsciousness  of  the  offence  of 
her  presence  more  complete  than  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay's. 

"  Mr.  Templemore  is  enjoying  himself  in 
London,  I  dare  say,"  replied  Dora ;  "  and  Lon- 


don would  not  do  for  us,  mamma.  You  want 
rest  and  quietness,  after  the  shock  you  have 
had.     Why  should  we  not  go  to  Ireland  ?  " 

"  My  dear !  "  cried  Mrs.  Courtenay,  much 
startled,  "what  would  your  husband  say  to 
that?" 

"  Why  should  he  say  anything  ? "  com- 
posedly replied  Dora ;  "  I  have  no  reason  to 
believe  that  he  misses  me  just  now.  He  will 
come  and  look  for  me  when  he  wants  me, 
mamma." 

She  spoke  so  calmly,  with  so  little  appear- 
ance of  resentment,  that  her  mother  was  de- 
ceived. She  did  not,  indeed,  yield  an  imme- 
diate assent  to  Dora's  proposal ;  she  hesitated 
and  demurred,  but  Dora's  quiet  arguments 
conquered  her  resistance  in  the  end.  Little 
by  little  she  gave  way,  and  finally  she  saw 
nothing  that  was  not  right  or  feasible  about 
this  expedition  to  the  Irish  coast. 

"A  child  could  cheat  her,"  thought  Dora, 
looking  at  her  guileless  little  mother  with  tears 
in  her  eyes ;  "  and  it  is  this  innocent  being — 
my  mother,  too,  for  whom  there  is  no  room  in 
Les  Eoches  !  It  is  she  whom  Mr.  Templemore 
could  believe  an  accomplice  in  a  base  plan  to 
rob  him  of  his  liberty.  If  his  heart  had 
not  already  been  turned  from  me,  would  my 
poor  mad  aunt's  story  have  prevailed  against 
us?" 

It  is  dangerous  to  sting  a  woman's  pride, 
and  most  dangerous  of  all  when  she  loves. 
Indifference  is  a  wonderful  peacemaker,  and 
there  are  few  wounds  it  will  not  heal.  Dora 
longed,  though  perhaps  she  did  not  know  it, 
to  pay  Mr.  Templemore  back  in  coin,  and  to 
show  him  that  she,  too,  could  live  without 
hira.  And  yet  she  prepared  but  slowly  for 
their  departure,  and  lingered  over  the  task; 
perhaps  she  had  a  secret  hidden  hope  that  her 
husband  would  return  suddenly,  and  prevent 
her  flight,  but  he  did  not.  Slow  though  Dora 
was,  everything  was  soon  ready,  and  she  said 
gayly  to  her  mother  one  evening : 


LES  EOCHES  FORSAKEN. 


239 


"  We  go  by  the  first  train,  and  I  am  so  glad ; 
the  change  will  do  us  a  world  of  good." 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
rather  languidly. 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  Dora,  still  cheerful ; 
and  she  went  out  for  a  lonely  walk,  but  look- 
ing "as  bright  as  sunshine,"  thought  Mrs. 
Courtenay.  The  evening  was  fair  and  still. 
A  dewy  freshness  was  falling  on  the  garden. 
Never,  it  seemed  to  Dora,  had  its  flowers  sent 
forth  a  fragrance  so  penetrating.  She  bent  to 
gather  some,  thea  turned  away,  leaving  them 
on  their  stems.  "Stay  here,"  she  thought 
— "stay  and  blow  and  wither  here.  If  I 
leave  this  place,  what  have  I  to  do  -with 
you  ?  " 

She  entered  the  shady  grounds.  How  cool, 
how  fresh,  how  mysterious  they  looked — but 
how  sad,  too,  was  their  loneliness  !  In  these 
alleys  Eva's  loud,  joyous  laugh  had  rung.  On 
that  old  bench  Mr.  Templemore  and  Florence 
had  sat  and  talked  of  love.  Dora  stood  be- 
fore it,  looking  at  it  as  moodily  as  if  it  were 
an  altar  on  which  her  youth  had  been  laid  and 
sacrificed  by  some  pitiless  Calchas. 

"  Why  did  I  ever  come  between  them  ?  "  she 
thought ;  "  why  did  he  ever  seek  me  ?  The 
sordid  cares  of  life  would  have  saved  me  from 
love.  I  dare  say  I  would  have  married  John 
Luan  in  the  end — out  of  very  weariness,  as  so 
•  many  girls  do  marry.  And  I  would  have  read 
novels,  and  wondered  at  that  happy  love-match 
one  reads  of  so  much  and  sees  so  seldom,  and 
my  life  would  have  been  as  a  quiet  dream. 
And  now  it  is  all  woe  and  bitterness.  I  am 
as  a  usurper  who  cannot  abdicate.  I  cannot 
set  him  free — and  he  cannot  love  me.  For  a 
few  days  he  was  bewitched ;  something  was 
on  him  which  looked  like  love,  but  was  not  it ; 
and  now  that  something  has  left  me,  and  liis 
heart  has  gone  back  to  her.  And  I  must 
either  see  it  and  suffer  agonies,  or  leave  him, 
as  I  do — and  suflFer  still.  Never  again  can  I 
be  happy— never,  and  I  am  not  twenty-five ! 


Paul — Paul — my  brother,  why  did  I  forget 
you ! " 

She  sank  on  her  knees  on  the  damp  earth, 
and  laid  her  fevered  cheek  on  the  stone  bench. 
She  could  not  weep,  but  she  let  the  flood  of 
bitter  thought  rise  and  overwhelm  her;  and 
when  remembrance  returned,  and  she  left  the 
past  and  its  dead  for  the  present  and  the 
living,  she  was  shivering,  and  the  chillness  of 
the  spot  and  the  hour  seemed  to  have  reached 
her  very  heart.  She  went  back  to  the  house 
and  entered  it,  but  she  did  not  go  to  her 
mother's  apartment.  She  took  a  light  and 
went  over  every  room  that  had  once  been  dear 
and  familiar  to  her.  "  After  all,  I  could  stay," 
she  thought,  "and  he  would  come  back.  I 
could  stay,  but  I  will  not;  and  when  he  re- 
turns, he  shall  find  that  solitude  he  went  so 
far  to  seek.  No  more  need  he  leave  his  home 
to  shun  me." 

Dora  was  standing  in  the  school-room  as  she 
came  to  this  bitter  conclusion.  Eva's  globes, 
her  books,  her  piano  were  there,  and  Dora's 
own  chair  by  the  window.  Some  pleasant  and 
some  severe  visions  haunted  this  apartment. 
She  had  been  very  happy  here,  but  here  too 
she  had  suffered  keenly.  Well,  both  that  joy 
and  that  sorrow  were  over  now.  She  had  en- 
tered a  dull,  cold  world,  where  neither  abided, 
where  all  was  shade  and  endurance.  "  I  will 
write  to  him  here,"  thought  Dora.  She  sat 
down,  and  taking  up  the  pen  which  had  so 
often  corrected  Eva's  exercises,  and  lay  there 
unused,  she  wrote  to  Eva's  father.  She  did 
not  complain,  she  did  not  reproach,  but  she  re- 
fused to  accept  the  fate  he  laid  upon  her.  It 
was  a  proud,  cold  letter,  but  it  was  also,  though 
Dora  did  not  think  so,  the  letter  of  a  woman 
who  still  loved  the  husband  whose  house  she 
was  leaving.  It  lay  before  her,  and  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  she  looked  at  it,  thinking: 
"This  is  my  first  letter  to  him.  I  wonder 
what  love-letters  arc  like,  and  how  they  feel 
who  write  or  read  them  ?  "    She  wondered  too 


240 


DORA. 


how  he  would  feel  when  this  letter  was  placed 
in  his  hands.  Would  he  seek  and  follow  her, 
fond  and  repentant  ?  Would  he  come  and 
claim  his  wife,  angry  and  authoritative,  or 
would  he  simply  leave  her  in  scornful  silence  ? 
"  I  could  burn  it  and  stay,"  she  thought ; 
"  nothing  compels  me  to  go — nothing.  It  is 
time  yet,  and  to-morrow  it  will  be  too  late." 
But  what  avails  time  when  we  will  not  take 
that  inestimable  boon  ?  Kiue  times  out  of 
ten  that  Fate,  of  whom  we  speak  with  mystei-i- 
ous  dread,  lies  in  our  hand,  and  is  the  servant 
of  our  own  will.  "  He  left  me,"  thought  Dora ; 
"  days  and  weeks  have  passed,  and  he  has  not 
written,  not  made  a  sign — I  do  not  know  where 
he  is — I  do  not  even  know  the  abode  of  his 
child.  His  last  act  was  to  signify  my  mother's 
exile,  and  to  give  me  money." 

She  rose  as  this  stinging  thought  came  to 
her,  she  went  up  to  her  room,  she  took  out  the 
bank-notes  from  her  desk  ;  she  enclosed  them 
with  her  letter,  sealed  the  packet,  then  rang 
for  Fanny. 

"  We  leave  early  to-morrow  morning,"  she 
said,  trying  to  speak  calmly ;  "  Mr.  Temple- 
.more  will  soon  return.  It  is  not  worth  while 
sending  this  by  post — you  will  give  it  to  him 
when  he  comes  back,  Fanny." 

The  girl  held  out  her  hand,  and  mechanical- 
ly Dora  gave  her  the  packet ;  but,  after  a  few 
moments'  pause,  she  took  it  back,  and  put  it 
in  the  drawer.  "You  will  find  it  there  to- 
morrow," she  said. 

"  Very  well,  ma'am,"  replied  Fanny.  She 
looked  as  unconscious  aa  she  well  could  look, 
but  she  had  felt  the  soft,  limp  notes  through 
the  envelope,  and  she  knew  the  meaning  of 
Dora's  journey. 

"  He  may  follow  me  if  he  chooses,"  thought 
Dora  ;  "  but  never  unless  he  seeks  for  me  shall 
I  enter  the  house  where  he  left  me  after  we  had 
been  married  a  fortnight.  The  sin,  if  sin  there 
be,  lies  with  him,  and  not  with  me." 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  long  sleepless  night  was  over.  A  dull 
gray  light  told  of  coming  dawn  when  Dora  rose 
and  dressed.  It  was  too  early,  and  she  knew 
it,  but  she  was  wearied  of  her  own  restlessness, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  motion  alone  would  calm 
the  fever  within  her.  Besides,  she  wanted  to 
go  to  Eouen  before  leaving  Les  Roches  with 
her  mother. 

The  porter  at  the  lodge  was  taking  what  he 
called  his  morning  nap  when  the  voice  of  his 
young  mistress  unexpectedly  roused  him  by  re- 
questing the  iron  gate  to  be  opened.  The  por- 
ter's conclusion  was  that  he  was  dreaming,  and 
that  this  was  not  his  morning  nap  but  his  mid- 
night sleep,  and  he  made  no  attempt  to  stir ; 
but  Dora's  voice  rose  higher,  and  by  knocking 
at  his  door  she  convinced  the  porter  that  he 
was  not  asleep  and  dreaming,  but  that  Mr. 
Templemore's  wife  wanted  to  leave  Les  Roches. 
So  he  rose  wondering,  and  let  her  out,  and 
looked  after  her  as  she  gUded  down  the  gray 
road  where  the  light  of  morning  was  gradually 
stealing,  wakening  the  tall  trees  from  their 
long,  calm  sleep,  and  giving  a  token  to  the 
closed  daisies  in  the  dewy  grass  that  ';he  sun 
was  coming  fast. 

Swiftly,  and  with  a  sort  of  longing,  Dora 
went  on  till  she  reached  her  old  home  and  * 
Madame  Bertrand's  house.  Madame  Bertrand 
was  in  the  act  of  opening  her  shutters,  a"jd 
she  still  wore  the  cotton  handkerchief  around 
her  head,  preliminary  to  the  donning  of  the 
close  white  cap  by  which  it  was  to  be  suc- 
ceeded. She  smiled  brightly  and  nodded 
cheerfully  on  seeing  Dora. 

"  Good-morning,  mademoiselle — madame,  I 
mean,"  she  added,  correcting  herself,  "  for  I 
have  been  told  you  are  madame  now,  the  wife 
of  Doctor  Richard."         * 

Dora  stood  like  one  transfixed.  The  wife 
of  Doctor  Richard  !     How  much  happiness  had 


AT  MADAME  BERTRAND'S. 


241 


ouce  seemed  comprised  in  these  words  ;  and 
now  what  was  their  meaning  ? 

"  Will  you  not  come  in  ?  "  asked  Madame 
Bertrand,  still  bright  and  cheerful;  and  as 
Dora  nodded  consent,  she  came  and  opened 
the  door  to  her  with  a  look  that  had  a  world 
of  knowing  and  shrewd  congratulation  in  it. 
Dora  soon  recovered  herself,  and  tried  to  look 
like  a  happy  bride. 

"I  have  come  to  bid  you  good-by,  Madame 
Bertrand,"  she  said ;  "  we  are  leaving  Les 
Roches,  and  as  I  do  not  know  when  we  shall 
return,  I  would  not  go  without  seeing  you  once 
more." 

Madame  Bertrand  was  very  grateful,  and 
made  a  few  inquiries  which  showed  that  she 
concluded  Mr.  Templemore  to  be  bent  on  the 
same  journey  with  his  wife.  Dora  did  not  un- 
deceive her,  there  was  no  need  to  do  so,  but, 
after  a  brief  pause,  she  said :       '*^' 

"I. see  j'our  rooms  are  not  let.  Will  you 
let  me  see  them  again  ?  I  always  intended 
drawing  the  view  from  my  room  window,  but 
I  never  did ;  I  fancy  that  if  I  look  at  it  now  I 
can  make  a  sketch  of  it." 

Madame  Bertrand  felt  delighted  and  flat- 
tered at  the  request.  She  always  had  said  the 
view  from  mademoiselle's  room  was  a  pretty 
view,  but  a  Parisian  family  who  had  looked  at 
the  apartment  yesterday  had  declared  it  was 
triste,  and  enough  to  give  one  the  spleen,  and 
had  gone  to  live  near  the  Rue  de  I'lmpera- 
trice,  which  was  so  glaring  that  it  was  enough 
to  dazzle  one's  eyes  out,  in  Madame  Bertrand's 
opinion. 

Thus  she  chattered  as  she  went  up-stairs 

with  Dora,  but  luckily  she  did  not  stay.      The 

baker  and  the  milkman  summoned  her  below. 

Her  sabots  clattered  down  the  staircase,  and 

Dora  Avas  alone  in  her  old  room.     Madame 

Bertrand  had  opened  the  window ;  the  sun 

was  up   now,   the   outlines  of  the  gray  old 

church  were  cut  on  a  blue  sky,  and  though  its 

body  was  still  in   shadow,  the  flowers   that 
10 


gi'cw  in  the  buttresses  stirred  gently  in  the 
little  wind  that  came  from  the  river,  and  had 
an  air  of  young,  bright  morning  life  about 
them.  How  gay  they  looked  on  that  carved 
stony  background,  from  which  centuries  had 
taken  away  its  first  hardness,  giving  instead  a 
tender  though  massive  grace !  How  pure  and 
transparent  was  the  green  of  the  vine-leaves 
through  which  the  fresh  morning  breeze  was 
playing,  as  if  to  toy  thus  with  Nature's  beau- 
tiful things  were  the  end  of  its  being,  and  how 
everything  she  saw  seemed  to  Dora  to  be  tell- 
ing her  again  the  story  of  her  lost  happiness  ! 
She  stood  and  looked  with  a  beating  heart. 
Her  hand  was  idle,  no  pencil  traced  that  view 
on  paper,  and  yet  she  was  drawing  it  all  the 
time — drawing  it  in  outlines  which  man's  hand 
could  never  efface,  in  colors  which  time  could 
not  fade,  on  a  poor,  frail  mortal  tablet,  in- 
deed, but  one  which  would  last  as  long  as  her 
own  being. 

"Doctor  Richard's  wife,"  she  thought,  turn- 
ing away  as  she  remembered  how  she  had  sat 
waiting,  watching  and  dreaming  too,  by  that 
window.  "  Yes,  thus  it  might  have  been  well ; 
but  I  am  like  you,  Griselidis,  I  too  have  been 
taken  from  low  estate,  and  I  too  must  pay  the 
cost,  for  the  full  price  is  not  told  yet ;  but  oh ! 
how  bitter  these  first  instalments  have  been ! " 
She  lowered  her  veil  and  went  down-stairs 
hastily. 

"  Good-by,  Madame  Bertrand,"  she  said — 
"  good-by.     God  bless  you ! " 

Madame  Bertrand  looked  for  the  drawing ; 
she  uttered  an  exclamation.  She  wanted  to 
see  it,  also  to  send  her  respectful  compliments 
to  Madame  Courtenay,  but  Dora  was  gone. 
Swiftly  though  she  went  away,  however,  Ma- 
dame Bertrand  had  seen  tears  ghsteuing  on 
her  checks  through  her  veil. 

"  The  dear  young  creature !  "  she  said,  when 
mentioning  the  fact  of  Dora's  visit  to  one  of 
her  gossips.  ,  "  She  was  so  affected  at  parting 
from  me,  that  she  wept.      But  all  my  lodg- 


242 


DORA. 


ers  doted  on  me,  excepting  Monsieur  Theo- 
dore." 

Another  errand,  besides  the  wish  of  seeing 
Madame  Bertrand,  once  more  had  brought 
Dora  to  Rouen ;  but  this  was  soon  fulfilled, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay  had  only  finished  dressing 
when  her  daughter  entered  her  room. 

"  My  dear,  where  have  you  been  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay.  "Fanny  told  me  you  were 
out — I  got  quite  uneasy." 

"  I  went  to  order  a  carriage,"  replied  Dora, 
calmly;  then,  seeing  her  mother's  amazed 
look,  she  added :  "  you  know  how  particular 
Mr.  Templemore  is  about  his  horses.  I  can- 
not say  what  the  coachman  would  do,  once  he 
had  put  us  down  at  the  station." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  supposed  her  daughter  was 
right,  but  it  was  plain  that,  as  the  hour  for 
leaving  Les  Roches  drew  nigh,  she  felt  bewil- 
dered and  perplexed.  Dora  looked  very 
cheerful,  though  she  also  looked  very  white. 
She  was  lively  and  talkative,  but  she  ate  no 
breakfast;  yet  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  lulled  to 
sleep,  and  she  innocently  said,  as  she  looked 
out  at  the  garden  from  the  breakfast-table  : 

"  I  like  going,  because  I  like  a  change  ;  but 
do  you  know,  Dora,  I  shall  also  like  coming 
back  to  Les  Roches  ?  It  looks  so  bright  and 
gay  this  morning." 

A  strange  expression  passed  across  Dora's 
pale  face,  but  she  sat  with  her  back  to  the 
light,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay's  sight  was  not  very 
good,  so  the  meaning,  which  a  person  of 
keener  mental  and  physical  vision  than  she 
was  might  have  read  there,  escaped  her. 
Jacques  came,  with  the  intimation  that  the 
carriage  had  arrived,  breakfast  was  over,  and 
it  was  time  to  go.  Dora  went  up  to  her  room 
to  put  on  her  bonnet,  also  to  give  the  letter, 
which  had  lain  in  the  drawer  all  night,  into 
Fanny's  hand.  The  girl  noticed  how  cold  and 
pale  her  mistress  looked,  also  how  her  little, 
nervous  hand  shook ;  bnt  well-bred  servants 
Lave  eyes,  and  see  not,  and  nothing  in  her 


pretty,  stolid  face  betrayed  that  she  had 
guessed  Mrs.  Templemore's  secret. 

This  was  the  end  of  the  long,  bitter  struggle. 
It  expired  with  the  last  pang.  What  remained 
to  be  gone  through  was  mere  mechanical  en- 
durance. Dora  went  down  to  her  mother  ;  they 
entered  the  carriage,  it  wheeled  round  the 
gravel  path,  passed  through  the  gates,  then 
went  down  the  road  at  a  rapid  pace.  The 
trees,  the  hedges,  the  villas  on  either  side 
rushed  past  them.  Children  in  gardens,  ser- 
vants at  bedroom  windows,  were  seen,  then 
vanished.  The  cool  streets  of  Rouen  were 
entered.  Sunshine  stole  down  the  roofs  of 
houses,  lit  up  dark  alleys,  and  poured  in  full 
broad  radiance  on  church  fronts,  rich  with 
carving. 

"  That  is  Saint  Ouen,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
looking  out  of  the  carriage  window.  But 
Dora  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes.  She 
would  not  see  the  entrance  to  the  Gallery. 
She  had  gone  through  sufl5cient  bitterness 
that  morning,  and  needed  no  more. 

The  rest  was  nothing.  It  was  merely  get- 
ting into  a  railway  carriage,  and  being  con- 
veyed through  a  green  landscape,  which 
Dora's  eyes  saw  not,  whilst  Mrs.  Courtenay 
made  pretty  childish  remarks,  or  uttered  little 
screams  of  wonder,  which  her  daughter  did 
not  hear.  Both  speech  and  exclamations 
ceased  rather  suddenly,  and  Dora  did  not 
miss  them.  She  was  again  going  through 
that  meeting  in  the  parlor  at  Kensington, 
when,  reading  sudden  and  unexpected  love  in 
Mr.  Templemore's  eyes,  she  had  placed  her 
hand  in  his.  Had  she  been  all  deceived,  then  ? 
Surely  he  had  cheated  himself  before  be  had 
tlius  convinced  her,  and  led  to  their  mutual 
loss  and  betrayal.  But  even  if  it  had  been  so 
— even  if  he  had  loved  her  for  a  few  hours — 
what  mattered  it  now  ?  Was  not  every  second 
of  time  separating  them,  and  had  she  not  her- 
self done  it,  and  did  she  repent  it  ? 

Dora   roused  herself,  and  compressed  her 


MRS.   COURTENAY  AGAIN  ILL. 


243 


lips,  and  kept  in  the  quick,  troubled  brcatli 
that  would  come  with  that  vain  yearnmg  tow- 
ard a  broken  past.  The  tame,  commonplace 
parlor,  the  trees,  the  gray  twilight,  all  faded 
away,  and  the  bright  green  landscape,  and  the 
railway  carriage,  and  her  mother's  presence 
came  back.    Suddenly  she  uttered  a  sort  of  cry. 

"  Mamma  1  mamma !  "  she  said,  seizing  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  hand,  "what  is  it?  —  what  ails 
you  ?  " 

"  I — I  am  not  very  well,"  faintly  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

The  change  in  her  countenance  was  so 
striking  and  ominous,  that  a  cold  terror  struck 
on  Dora's  heart.  This  was  no  trifling  ailment, 
no  passing  weakness  or  fainting-fit, 

"  Mamma,"  she  cried,  her  voice  rising  with 
sudden  anguish,  "mamma,  do  tell  me  what 
ails  you  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  stammered  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. "  I  felt  very  strange  all  night — but  I 
thought  it  would  go." 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hand  and 
seemed  unable  to  say  more.  They  were  alone 
in  the  carriage. 

"  We  shall  alight  at  the  next  station',"  said 
Dora. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  did  not  answer.  Her  coun- 
tenance was  vacant,  and  the  hand  which  Dora 
held  was  cold  and  clammy.  How  drearily  slow 
felt  the  motion  of  the  train,  yet  it  soon  slack- 
ened its  speed  and  stopped  at  a  branch  station. 
The  line  here  passed  through  a  green  park,  at 
the  end  of  which  Dora  could  see  the  closed 
windows  of  au  old  chateau;  no  other  dwelling 
was  viiible,  yet  Dora  remembered  the  place  at 
once.  She  alighted,  put  a  few  questions,  and 
learned  that  they  were,  as  she  thought,  within 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  that,  village  inn  where 
they  had  once  dined  with  llv.  Templemore. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  was  helped  down,  and  a  mes- 
senger was  dispatched  to  the  "  White  Horse  " 
for  a  vehicle ;  it  came,  after  a  brief  delay.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  was  lifted  up  into  it,  and  they  drove 


slowly  through  a  green,  happy  landscape,  that 
made  Dora's  heart  ache.  Yet  her  mother  was 
no  worse  when  they  reached  the  "White 
Horse."     She  even  said  she  felt  better. 

"  The  doctor  is  waiting,"  said  the  landlady, 
coming  out  to  receive  them. 

Nothing  was  changed  about  the  old  place, 
and  this  homely  woman's  face  was  not  altered. 
Time  had  told  her  no  sad  story,  her  bright  blue 
eyes  and  ruddy  cheeks  spoke  of  unbroken  con- 
tent and  steadfast  cheerfulness.  That  gulf  which 
existed  between  Mr.  Templemore's  wife  and  her 
lost  happiness  had  all  been  smooth  level  ground 
to  her.  Small  cares  and  daily  tasks  had  filled 
those  days  which  Dora  had  found  so  dreary 
and  so  eventful.  But  she  had  no  time  to  linger 
over  these  thoughts ;  her  mother  was  conveyed 
to  the  best  room  of  the  house — she  remembered 
it  too — and  there  they  found  Doctor  Gentil,  a 
brown  old  man,  a  real  village  doctor,  rather 
rough  of  aspect,  but  kindly  in  manner.  He 
put  a  few  questions  to  Mrs.  Courtenay,  wrote  a 
prescription,  and  left,  saying  he  would  call  in 
the  afternoon.     Dora  followed  him  out. 

"  Is  it  a  serious  case  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low 
tone. 

He  read  her  face.     It  was  pale  but  brave. 

"  Very  serious,"  he  replied,  gravely,  "  but 
not  hopeless." 

"  Not  hopeless  !  "  The  words  seemed  to 
stun  Dora;  but  she  rallied  at  once,  and  re- 
turned to  her  mother  with  a  smiling  face. 

"  We  shall  have  to  stay  here  a  few  days,"  she 
said. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  vacantly  replied  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. "Yet  I  feel  better — only  so  strange, 
quite  stupid." 

Dora  looked  at  her  silently.  She  had  never 
before  seen  Mrs.  Courtenay  with  that  pinched 
face  and  those  sunken  eyes. 

"  I  do  believe  I  could  not  make  out  a  pa- 
tience," resumed  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  then  she 
added,  with  sudden  liveliness :  "  Did  you  bring 
the  cards  ?  " 


244 


DORA. 


"  If  I  did  not  we  can  buy  some,  mamma." 

"  Buy ! — why  buy  ?  Why  not  use  our  own  ?  " 
But  she  could  not  follow  out  this  train  of 
thought.  It  proved  too  much  for  her,  and  she 
shook  her  head  rather  drearily.  "It  is  no 
use,"  she  said.     "I  am  getting  stupid." 

In  the  afternoon  Doctor  Gentil  came  again. 
He  found  Mrs.  Court enay  neither  better  nor 
worse,  and  still  he  said,  "  It  was  a  serious  case, 
but  not  hopeless."  Two  wearisome,  anxious 
days  passed  thus.  On  the  third  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  was  slightly  better,  but  also  very  restless, 
and  toward  evening  she  insisted  that  her 
daughter  should  go  out.  Dora  resisted,  then 
yielded  to  please  her. 

"  You  want  fresh  air,  you  know,"  said  her 
mother, "  and  that  good  old  soul,  the  landlady, 
will  stay  with  me.  You  know  I  like  old  peo- 
ple." 

Dora  went,  but  her  heart  still  felt  heavy  and 
sad  as  she  walked  up  a  green,  winding  path 
that  led  to  the  church.  Her  niother  was  not 
out  of  danger,  and  she  feared  the  worst.  It 
seemed  as  if  some  terrible  doom  weighed  upon 
her,  and  as  if  every  step  she  took  in  life  only 
helped  to  work  out  its  fulfilment.  The  strong 
wind  of  calamity,  division,  and  impending  death 
was  sweeping  everything  and  every  one  from 
her  side.  A  little  more,  and  she  would  stand 
alone,  with  the  great  desert  of  life  around  her. 

It  might  have  been  better  for  Dora's  nature 
if  her  lot  had  not  been  so  hard  a  one  just  then. 
We  are  not  always  the  wiser  for  sorrow,  for  v,e 
do  not  always  know  how  to  receive  that  severe 
chastener,  grief;  and  there  was  too  much  re- 
sentment, not  against  Providence,  but  against 
one  of  its  human  instruments,  in  the  heart  of 
Mr.  Templemore's  wife.  She  could  not  forgive 
her  husband.  He  had  left  her  for  a  few  days 
only,  but  these  had  been  calamitous  as  years, 
and  by  giving  her  no  clew  to  his  whereabouts, 
he  had  signified  very  plainly  that  he  wanted  to 
forget  as  well  as  to  leave  his  wife.  "  Be  it  so," 
she  thought ,  "  it  is  his  act,  not  mine — the  sep- 


aration, the  forgetfulness,  shall  be  as  deep  as 
ever  he  can  have  wished  them  to  be." 

She  was  walking  with  her  eyes  bent  as  she 
thought  thus.  She  looked  up  as  the  path 
widened.  The  village  was  far  behind  her,  and 
before  her  stood  the  little  gray  church,  with 
its  churchyard  around  it.  "I  have  been  here 
once  before,"  thought  Dora,  with  a  pang,  "  and 
shall  I  soon  come  here  again  ? "  Yet  she 
could  not  resist  the  bitter  temptation  of  sur- 
veying the  spot  that  might  soon  be  her 
niother's  last  home.  A  few  graves  were  scat- 
tered within  the  narrow  space  which  a  low 
wall  enclosed  around  the  ancient  'edifice. 
Through  the  open  door  Dora  could  see  the 
altqir,  and  above  it  a  richly-painted  glass  win- 
dow. Purple  hues,  with  bright  streaks  of 
ruby  and  emerald,  fell  on  the  white  altar-cloth, 
and  on  the  cold  stone  floor.  But  not  a  soul 
was  visible.  No  old  woman  had  gone  in  to 
say  her  prayers  ;  no  lingering  urchin  had 
strayed  in  to  loiter  away  time.  Equally  silent 
and  lonely  was  the  little  churchyard.  Tall 
trees  rose  everywhere  around  it,  making  a 
background  of  green  gloom,  and  shutting  out 
from  the  dead  the  friendly  aspect  of  human 
dwellings.  But  to  Dora,  in  that  dark  hour,  it 
seemed  well  that  it  should  be  so.  Such  a 
mound  of  red  earth  as  that  of  a  new-made 
grave,  which  her  eye  fell  upon,  might  soon 
hold,  if  not  all  that  had  been  dear,  all  at 
least  that  now  faithfully  loved  her.  "One  in 
Glasnevin  and  one  here,"  she  thought.  "  Oh ! 
if  I  could  but  go  down  there  with  you,  my 
poor  darling — if*  when  he  comes  back,  he 
could  but  learn  that  mother  and  child  arc  lying 
in  the  same  cold  bed,  he  would  be  free  at 
last — free  and  happy,  who  can  doubt  it?  " 

She  could  not  weep,  she  could  not  pray — 
there  are  thoughts  too  bitter  for  tears,  feelings 
too  earthly  to  soar  on  the  strong  wing  of 
prayer.  She  could  only  stand  there  looking  at 
that  grave,  and  brooding  over  a  blank  future. 
For  a  blank  it  must  be.    "  Never,  if  I  leave 


THE  STRANGE   ENGLISH   LADY. 


245 


her  here,"  thought  Dora,  ''  naver  shall  he  find 
me.  I  will  vanish  from  his  life,  as  she  will  have 
vanished  from  this  earth.  I  will  beg  my 
bread,  I  will  toil  like  a  hireling  before  I  go 
back  to  his  house  and  live  on  his  money." 

Suddenly  a  keen,  remorseful  thought  smote 
on  this  resentful  mood.  What  was  she  do- 
ing here,  brooding  over  irreparable  wrongs, 
when  her  mother  might  be  dying  ?  Eagerly, 
swiftly  she  retraced  her  steps.  She  hurried 
down  the  path,  through  the  village,  and  she 
was  breathless  when  she  reached  her  mother's 
room.  On  seeing  her,  the  landlady  rose,  and, 
looking  mysterious,  made  a  sign.  Dora  fol- 
lowed her  out.  AVith  many  needless  words 
the  good  woman  informed  Dora  that  an  Eng- 
lish lady,  young  and  richly-dressed,  had  come 
to  the  inn  in  consequence  of  an  accident  on 
the  line,  but  that  on  learnmg  Mrs.  Courtenay's 
presence  and  illness,  she  had  looked  alarmed 
and  left  hastily. 

"  She  thought  it  was  some  contagious  dis- 
ease," said  Dora. 

"No,  no,  mademoiselle.  I  am  sure  she 
knew  you,"  shrewdly  answered  the  landlady  ; 
"  I  saw  it  in  her  face." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  sadly  said  Dora ;  "  no 
one  knows  me."  And  she  went  back  to  her 
mother. 

"  I  an\  glad  you  came  back,"  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay ;  "  I  want  to  sleep,  and  I  did  not 
like  to  do  so  while  you  were  away.  Of  course 
the  poor  old  thing  is  honest ;  but  having  all 
that  money — " 

"  What  money,  mamma  ?  " 

"All  those  notes  Mr.  Templemore  sent 
you." 

Dora  said  nothing.  Where  was  the  use  of 
enlightening  and  troubling  her  ? 

"And  so  I  am  glad  you  came  back,"  re- 
sumed Mrs.  Courtenay,  "  for  I  am  very 
sleepy." 

Dora  smoothed  her  mother's  pillow.  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  head  sank  back  upon  it  with  a 


luxurious  sigh,  and,  saying  languidly,  "  Oh ! 
what  a  sweet  sleep  I  am  going  to  have !  "  she 
closed  her  eyes  and  full  into  a  deep,  calm 
slumber. 

Dora  looked  at  her  in  a  sort  of  dream. 
Forth  from  the  recesses  of  memory  there  came 
to  her  an  Eastern  saying  v.'hich  Doctor  Richard 
had  once  told  her — "  It  is  better  to  sit  than  to 
stand ;  it  is  better  to  lie  than  to  sit ;  and 
better  to  be  dead  than  lying." 

A  fatalist  first  said  this ;  and  yet  how  it 
answers  to  a  feeling  within  us — to  a  weariness, 
a  languor,  and  craving  for  repose,  which 
nothing  mortal  can  content,  and  which  goes 
forth  to  meet  that  something  more  than  mor- 
tal, of  which  death  holds  the  keys  ! 

"My  poor  little  mother!"  thought  Dora, 
looking  at  her  with  dim  eyes  and  quivering 
hps.  "  She  is  so  innocent,  so  guileless,  so 
childish,  that  if  she  were  to  pass  away  thus 
from  life  like  a  sleeping  baby,  I  could  feel  no 
uneasiness,  no  fear — no  more  than  if  she  were 
a  child  indeed.  And  for  her  it  would  be  well, 
but  oh !  for  me — for  me ! " 

She  could  not  bear  the  thought.  She  rose 
and  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there.  The 
summer  beauty  of  the  day  was  gone.  Sullen 
clouds  were  gathering  in  the  sky.  A  south- 
westerly wind  bent  the  summits  ot  a  few  tall 
trees  that  rose  above  the  village.  Dora  knew 
them  by  the  church  spire  which  rose  amongst 
them — these  were  the  trees  that  overlooked 
the  churchyard.  The  inn  was  very  quiet ; 
the  village,  indeed,  looked  lonely  and  almost 
deserted.  There  was  a  great  fair  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  the  men  and  women  had  gone 
to  it.  A  few  old  people  and  young  children 
alone  had  remained  behind.  One  house  facing 
the  inn  attracted  her  attention  by  a  group  at 
the  door.  An  old  man  and  two  children 
stood  looking  up  the  road.  Presently  the 
elder  of  the  boys  ran  toward  a  man  and  a 
woman  who  walked  slowly.  They  were  heavi- 
ly laden,  and  the  woman  looked  footsore ;  but 


246 


DORA. 


she  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  and  drew'  out 
something  which  the  boy  flourished  aloft  like 
a  prize  till  his  brother  came  jealously  forward 
to  claim  his  share.  Then  they  all  mingled 
and  entered  the  house  together;  and  present- 
ly a  bright  fire  sprang  from  the  kitchen 
hearth  ;  and  through  the  open  window  Dora 
saw  them  all  on  the  vivid  background,  and 
as  she  looked  a  feehng  of  great  desolation 
fell  upon  her  heart.  She  thought  of  her  hus- 
band, of  Eva,  of  the  home  she  had  left,  of  her 
mother,  who  might  die  in  a  village  inn,  and 
be  buried  with  unknown  dead  in  a  village 
churchyard — and  the  bright,  happy  picture  be- 
fore her  was  lost  in  tears. 

The  clouds  broke  into  rain — soft  summer 
rain,  that  would  renew  the  drooping  aspect 
of  nature,  and  give  it  a  more  brilliant  beauty  ; 
but  the  tears  which  Dora  shed,  as  she  thought 
over  the  bitterness  of  her  lot,  brought  no 
relief  to  her  full  heart.  For  her  there  seemed 
no  bright,  no  happy  mortow  in  store — no 
renewal  of  love  and  joy.  Nothing  but  a  long, 
sad  darkness,  deep  and  melancholy  as  that  of 
the  coming  night. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

It  might  have  softened  the  bitterness  at 
Dora's  heart,  if  she  had  known  how  keen  an 
agony  it  was  for  her  husband  to  doubt  her, 
and  leave  her  with  that  doubt  upon  him.  He 
had  told  her,  and  told  her  truly,  that  the  loss 
of  Florence  had  been  to  him  as  the  lopping  of 
a  limb;  but  to  lose  his  wife  thus  was  like 
death  itself.  Life  and  health  do  not  perish 
because  of  the  pangs  of  amputation,  and  Mr. 
Templemore,  once  the  surgeon's  knife  had 
gone  through  him,  had  felt  a  sound  and  living 
man  again.  He  would  not,  indeed,  have 
chosen  such  a  time  to  love  and  marry;  but 
marriage  having  seemed  compulsory  to  him, 
he  had  neither  wished  nor  sought  to  avoid 
love.    And  love  had  come  to  him  delightful 


and  engrossing  as  a  second  spring.  Dora  had 
gifts  which  he  had  always  appreciated,  but 
which  he  prized  keenly  and  very  fondly  when 
they  became  his.  He  liked  her  bright  youth- 
ful aspect,  her  warm  heart,  her  joyous  laugh, 
and  her  fine  clear  mind.  He  admired  her,  he 
was  tenderly  proud  of  her,  and  he  loved  her 
with  a  passion  as  sudden  as  it  was  engrossing. 
She  was  his  wife — his  dear  wife,  linked  to  him 
by  ties  sv.'eet,  sacred,  and  indissoluble — linked 
to  him  for  years,  for  life,  and  with  no  parting 
possible  but  the  bitter  inevitable  parting  of 
the  grave. 

And  now  this  fervid  dream  was  over.  Love, 
honor,  admiration  were  dead.  It  was  over, 
and  he  left  her  stung  and  mortified  with  his 
wrong,  ashamed  and  humbled  at  his  mistake, 
and  even  at  the  gleam  of  passion  which  had 
survived  it,  and  nearly  betrayed  him  anew, 
and  again  made  him  her  slave.  He  left  her, 
angrily  feeling  that  he  must  return  to  her 
some  day — yes,  this  guilty  wife,  whom  he  had 
thought  to  go  on  loving  less  passionately,  per- 
haps, as  time  passed,  and  youth  fled,  but  not 
less  truly,  held  him  fast,  and  he  must  return 
to  her.  He  was  thrown  on  a  lifelong  com- 
panionship, from  which  the  soul  of  love  had 
departed.  Bitterness  and  indignation  availed 
him  nothing ;  he  was  Dora  Courtenay's  hus- 
band. 

Passion  is  like  a  stormy  sea.  It  has  waves 
that  rise  high  or  fall  back  as  with  the  breath 
of  the  tempest.  If  Dora  had  but  known  it, 
there  had  been  a  moment  when,  innocent  or 
guilty,  she  had  prevailed — when  a  word,  u 
look,  a  caress,  would  have  kept  Mr.  Temple- 
more  forever.  But  she  had  let  him  depart, 
and  when  the  door  of  her  room  closed  be- 
tween them,  his  longing  for  faith,  her  charm, 
and  her  power,  had  all  vanished  alike.  She 
had  allowed  those  full  waters  to  go  back  to 
their  fountain-head,  and  the  doubt  and  anger, 
allayed  awhile  by  the  seduction  of  her  pres- 
ence, to  rise  anew  when   she  was   seen  no 


MR.   TEMPLEMORE   IN  PARIS. 


247 


more.  She  had  allowed  Mr.  Templemore  to 
remember  that  a  fraud  had  made  him  her 
husband,  to  believe  that  she  had  looked  on 
and  accepted  all  passively,  the  sin  and  its 
reward,  and  the  higher  had  been  the  tide  that 
bore  him  to  her,  the  stronger  was  the  reced- 
ing power  of  that  which  now  carried  both 
love  and  him  away  from  Dora. 

To  give  and  to  receive  is  one  of  the  strong- 
est of  human  ties,  and  perhaps  because  man 
and  woman  can  never  give  or  receive  more 
than  in  the  marriage  state,  is  that  link  held  so 
sacred,  and  felt  to  be  so  potent.  The  more  is 
given,  and  the  dearer  grows  the  bond  ;  but 
woe  to  the  day  when  the  once  generous  supply 
is  stinted — when  the  heart  has  no  more  to  be- 
stow, and  feels  no  joy  in  receiving.  That  sad  day 
now  seemed  to  have  come  for  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Never,  never  can  I  love  her  again  ?  "  he 
thought,  as  he  leaned  back  in  the  railway 
carriage  that  took  him  on  to  Paris,  after  he 
had  left  Miss  Moore  and  Eva  at  St.  Germains. 
"  And  yet  I  must  go  back  to  her,  or  take  on 
myself  the  frightful  responsibility  of  utterly 
forsaking  a  young  and  attractive  woman,  who 
has  not  been  my  wife  three  weeks." 

The  alternative  sickened  him.  If  he  left 
her  to  her  fate,  might  she  not,  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  her  heart,  turn  desperate,  and  give 
him  cause  to  I'ue  his  abandonment  ?  Mr. 
Templemore  was  not  of  a  jealous  nature,  and 
he  did  not  even  then  doubt  his  wife's  virtue  ; 
but  he  remembered  that  John  Luan  loved  her, 
and  that  Dora  never  forgot  a  wrong.  His 
conscience  and  his  pride  alike  told  him  that 
he  must  return  to  her  if  he  wished  to  avoid 
for  both  the  risk  of  ruin  and  shame.  Yes,  he 
must  go  back,  and  though  he  had  never  con- 
templated not  doing  so,  the  necessity  galled 
him.  He  mast  go  back  to  the  woman  who 
had  entrapped  him,  and  who  had  now  a  legal 
right  to  his  name,  his  home,  and  his  love.  The 
thought  chafed  him,  and  added  its  mitution  to 
the  despair  of  that  dark  hour. 


Two  ladies — well-dressed  women — were  Mr. 
Templemore's  travelling  companions.  He  had 
not  seen  them  at  first,  but  now  he  became 
conscious  of  their  presence.  They  were  young 
and  pleasant-looking.  They  were  cheerful, 
too,  and  seeing  him  so  gloomy  and  absorbed, 
they  talked  pretty  much  as  if  he  were  not 
there.  The  younger  one  of  the  two  took  off 
her  gloves.  He  saw  her  rings  flash  on  her 
slender  fingers  ;  the  scent  from  her  little  per- 
fumed handkerchief  was  that  which  Dora 
used  ;  the  rustling  of  her  silk  dress  reminded 
him  of  the  pleasure  with  which  he  used  to  hear 
his  wife  move  about  the  house  at  Deenah. 
Something  in  her  attitude,  as  she  looked  out 
on  the  green  landscape,  made  him  remember 
with  a  sharp  pang  his  happy  wedding-day,  and 
Dora's  radiant  face  as  they  journeyed  togeth- 
er, and  Mr.  Templemore  felt  the  happiest  of 
bridegrooms.  And  now,  what  was  left  to  him 
of  all  the  dreams  he  had  that  day  indulged  in? 
The  graceful,  elegant  woman  whom  he  had 
wedded  was  his  still — the  woman  who  had  a 
charming  figure,  a  pretty  hand,  fine  eyes,  and 
hair  of  a  beautiful  color — yes,  she  was  his  till 
death  should  them  part,  and  long  after  those 
fleeting  charms  should  have  faded  she  would 
still  be  his.  But  that  other  dearer  woman, 
the  companion  and  friend  —  she  who  had 
already  made  him  feel  that  there  is  a  tie 
stronger  than  blood,  more  potent  than  the  af- 
fection of  habit,  a.ympathy  in  some  of  the  noble 
things  for  which  God  gave  man  life — she  was 
gone — she  was  lost ;  and  seek  for  her  long  as 
he  would,  he  could  find  her  no  more. 

Oh !  if  he  could  have  believed  her  to  be 
guiltless  !  If  he  could  have  forgotten  how  she 
had  tried  to  prevent  her  aunt  from  speaking 
and  him  from  hearing  ;  if  he  could  have  for- 
gotten her  pale  face,  and  her  silence,  her 
weak  defence,  her  assertions  of  innocence,  un- 
supported by  proof;  if  he  could  have  forgotten 
all  those  tokens  that  had  condemned  her,  and 
risen  before  him  to  say,  "  Whether  from  love, 


248 


DORA. 


or  hate,  or  vengeance,  or  cupidity,  she  has 
abetted  it — she  let  it  be  done,  and  she  reaped 
the  gain  ! "  But  he  could  not.  He  tortured 
his  mind  to  acquit  her,  and  he  could  not.  She 
had  not  warned  him,  she  had  refused  to  answer 
Mrs.  Logan — if  ever  silence  was  guilty  hers 
was.  But  if  the  cloud  which  doubt  had  called 
up  would  not  be  dispelled,  if  it  ever  floated 
between  him  and  his  wife's  image,  and  only 
grew  darker  and  denser  with  every  eflbrt  he 
made  to  break  it,  so  there  also  rose  in  his 
heart  a  bitter  resentment  against  every  human 
being  connected  with  his  wrong.  He  hated 
Mrs.  Luan  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  for  having 
plotted  it,  and  he  could  scarcely  forgive  Miss 
Moore  or  Mrs.  Logan  for  having  helped  to 
reveal  it.  Toward  Dora  his  feelings  were  too 
implacable  for  either  hate  or  forgiveness.  She 
was  the  embodiment  of  his  misery — the  being 
whose  betrayal  had  caused  it,  and  whose  false- 
hood had  given  it  a  more  cruel  and  a  keener 
pang. 

On  reaching  Paris  Mr.  Templemore  went  to 
one  of  the  hotels  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  where 
he  was  in  the  habit  of  stopping.  "  And  now," 
he  thought,  as  he  entered  rooms  gay  with  sun- 
shine, and  beyond  which  he  caught  a  bright 
glimpse  of  the  Tuileries  gardens,  "now  how 
am  I  to  get  rid  of  this  pain  ?  "  Question  hard 
to  answer.  Pleasure,  which  had  never  had 
any  charms  for  Mr.  Templemore,  was  now 
odious.  He  hated  crowds,  and  solitude  he 
knew  is  cruel  and  daugerous.  He  would  not 
have  Eva  or  Miss  Moore  with  him,  for  one 
could  only  remind  him  of  his  fond  illusion,  and 
the  other  of  its  bitter  wakening.  So,  as  he 
suffered  cruelly  and  keenly,  he  did  what  the  in- 
tellectual and  the  strong  often  do  in  such  emer- 
gencies, he  took  refuge  in  study  from  his  pain. 

There  were  few  branches  of  knowledge  which 
he  had  not  already  tried,  but  for  some  he  had 
never  felt  any  ardent  devotion.  Statistics  and 
political  economy  had  been  least  favored  by 
him.     He  now  took  to  them  with  a  sort  of 


fury.  Population,  shipping,  standing  armies, 
disease,  had  their  turn  ;  he  heaped  his  room 
with  blue-books,  and  covered  cfuires  of  paper 
with  estimates,  returns,  and  calculations ;  be 
worked  night  and  day,  not  caring  all  the  time 
for  the  result  of  his  labor,  and  he  succeeded  in 
bringing  on  himself  a  fit  of  illness  which  lasted 
a  fortnight,  and  from  which  he  issued  languid, 
listless,  and  more  unhappy  tlian  ever. 

Neither  time,  nor  work,  nor  illness  had 
cured  him.  Time  had  only  added  to  the  re- 
sentful bitterness  of  his  feeling,  and  to  the 
severity  of  the  condemnation  his  judgment  had 
passed  on  the  offender ;  but  it  was  still  the 
same  wound  which  bled  inly,  it  was  still  the 
cruel  thought  that  Dora  was  his  wife,  and  that 
she  was  worthless  of  a  man's  love.  Integrity, 
honor,  delicacy,  were  the  ruling  feelings  of  Mr. 
Templemore's  mind.  The  woman  who  had 
failed  in  these,  even  though  for  love  of  him, 
could  never  be  again  to  him  the  woman  whom 
nothing  and  no  one  could  have  tempted  to 
sin.  And  yet,  and  though  his  sense  of  her 
error  grew  keener  daily,  his  feelings  had  im- 
dergone  a  change.  If  he  still  thought  of  her 
guilt,  he  now  thought  very  little  of  his  wrong. 
He  did  not  regret  Florence,  he  scarcely  re- 
gretted his  liberty,  but  he  passionately  regret- 
ted his  wife,  that  innocent  being,  all  love  and 
brightness,  whom  he  had  had  for  a  few  days, 
and  who  had  so  soon  worn  the  common  hues 
of  mortality.  Oh  !  to  go  back  to  that  time  of 
dear  illusions,  to  possess  a  girl  so  happy,  so 
fond,  and  so  true !  To  feel  bound  to  her  for 
life,  to  dread  no  wakening,  to  look  forward 
without  fear  to  the  long  future  ! 

But  it  is  no  relief  to  think  a  once  loved  be- 
ing unworthy,  and  these  thoughts  seemed  so 
bitter  to  Mr.  Templemore,  one  evening  as  he 
sat  by  the  window  of  hi:3  room  looking  out  on 
the  stirring  scene  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  below, 
that  he  could  endure  them  no  longer.  He  re- 
belled under  their  torture,  and  taking  his  hat 
walked  out. 


THE  THEATRE. 


249 


He  went  forth  idly,  neither  knowing  nor 
caring  whither  his  steps  took  him.  On  turn- 
ing the  corner  of  a  street,  he  suddenly  found 
himself  on  the  Boulevards.  The  night  was 
black,  not  a  star  shone  in  the  cloudy  sky ;  but 
the  two  rows  of  lamps  made  an  endless  avenue 
of  light  before  him.  The  shops  were  brilliant 
and  gay ;  cafes  glittered  like  fairy  palaces, 
and  crowds  were  abroad  to  enjoy  what  fresh- 
ness there  was  in  the  stormy  air.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore  found  none.  Close  and  sultry  felt 
the  atmosphere.  The  young  trees  which  rose 
dimly  before  him,  their  trunks  and  lower 
branches  lit,  and  their  summits  vanishing  in 
gloom,  seemed  to  him  as  oppressive  as  the 
roof  of  a  forest.  Yet  he  went  on,  leaving 
boulevard  after  boulevard  behind  him,  and  he 
never  thought  of  stopping  till  a  dense  group 
suddenly  checked  his  progress.  Mr.  Temple- 
more  then  looked  up.  Before  him  he  saw  the 
rising  steps  and  the  columned  front  of  a 
theatre.  People  were  going  in  eagerly.  He 
hesitated  awhile,  then  he  too  went  up  the 
steps,  paid  for  his  place,  and  within  five 
minutes  he  was  seated  in  one  of  the  galleries. 

Mr.  Templemore  had  not  gone  to  the  play 
for  several  ydars.  He  liked  none  save  the 
finest  acting  and  singing,  and,  being  a  man  of 
fastidious  tastes,  he  did  not  admit  the  exist- 
ence of  such  very  readily.  Weariness  of 
spirit  had  alone  tempted  him  this  evening  to 
enter  a  second-class  house,  where  the  actors 
were  probably  suited  to  the  plays  they  per- 
formed in.  He  wondered  at  himself  for  hav- 
ing done  so ;  he  looked  around  him,  and 
wondered  still  more  at  the  gay,  eager  faces  he 
saw.  The  musicians^ in  the  orchestra  were 
talking  and  laughing  together  as  they  tuned 
their  instruments — he  wondered  at  them  too. 
Amongst  them  was  a  lively  little  dark  man, 
who  could  not  Ije  quiet  a  moment ;  he  shook 
his  black  head  of  hair,  he  rolled  his  eyes,  he 
screwed  his  mouth,  and  looked  very  like  an 
animated    nut  -  cracker.      Mr.     Templemore 


watched  him  with  a  sort  of  interest ;  the 
vitality  of  that  swarthy  little  musician  was 
attractive  to  one  whose  present  mood  was  so 
drearily  languid.  The  curtain  rose,  the  per- 
formance began,  the  actors  spoke,  and_^till 
Mr.  Templemore's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
orchestra,  and  he  thought,  "  What  p,  curious 
idiosyncrasy  that  man  must  have  !  " 

"  How  charmingly  she  is  dressed,  whispered 
a  voice  •near  him.  He  glanced  toward  the 
speaker.  She  was  a  girl  of  eighteen  or  so, 
plump  and  good-humored-looking.  She  ad- 
dressed another  girl,  her  sister,  evidently,  as 
plump,  and  seemingly  as  good-tempered  as 
herself.  Beside  them  sat  their  mother,  a 
bourgcoise  of  forty,  who  had  been  at  twenty 
what  they  were  now.  What  absence  of  all 
care  appeared  in  these  three  faces  !  Nothing 
was  there,  not  even  the  excitement  of  pleas- 
ure ;  nothing  beyond  the  calm,  sensual  content 
of  satisfied  animal  existence.  Mr.  Temple- 
more turned  back  from  them  to  the  mu^cian, 
but  in  so  doing  his  look  passed  across  the 
stage,  and  he  uttered  a  deep,  startled  "  Ah  !  " 
which  was  heard  over  the  whole  house,  and 
drew  every  eye  upon  him. 

But  Mr.  Templemore  saw  and  heeded  but  oao 
thing ;  for  there,  on  the  stage  before  him,  stood 
his  wife,  dressed  in  white  muslin,  gay,  young, 
and  lovely.  She  stood  alone  in  a  gloomy  room, 
with  a  dim  and  sombi-e  background  behind  her 
solitary  figure,  and  her  head  half  averted.  It 
was  she — so  said  the  first  look  ;  that  was  the 
turn  of  her  neck,  her  figure,  and  her  attitude  ; 
but  she  looked  round,  and  the  charm  was  bro- 
ken ;  she  spoke,  and  it  was  gone.  But  the  shock 
which  that  momentary  illusion  had  caused  could 
not  vanish  with  it;  nor  the  subtle  thrill  of  joy  it 
had  wakened,  cease.  When  this  girl  looked 
at  the  audience,  Mr.  Templemore  could  not 
look  at  her ;  but  when  she  turned  away  and 
became  once  more  the  image  of  his  young 
wife,  in  her  light  motions  and  easy  attitudes, 
he  leaned  forward,  with  his  elbow  resting  on 


250 


DORA. 


the  crimson  velvet  of  the  balustrade,  uncon- 
scious of  the  observation  which  his  eager  gaze 
attracted.  His  very  heart  was  moved  within 
him  with  a  soft  and  delicious  emotion.  It  was 
like  going  back  to  the  first  wondering  happi- 
ness of  his  marriage  to  feel  as  he  now  felt. 
All  that  love,  which  had  seemed  buried  in 
arid  desolation,  hke  sweet  waters  beneath  the 
sand  of  the  desert,  "welled  back  to  his  heart 
with  tenfold  power.  Mr.  Templemore  did  not 
strive  against  it — he  let  that  full  tide  come 
and  rise  and  master  him,  and  he  felt  blest  to 
the  very  core  in  his  subjection. 

When  the  curtain  fell,  on  the  first  act, 
and  she  vanished,  he  breathed  deeply,  and 
for  the  first  time  he  tried  to  think  and  be 
calm.  Vain  attempt ;  thought  would  not 
come  at  his  bidding — nothing  came  but  a 
vague,  passionate  yearning  to  be  gone,  and 
be  with  her  once  more.  He  could  scarcely 
resist  the  desire  which  bade  him  rise  and  de- 
part that  moment.  An  express-train  left  in 
the  middle  of  the  night.  It  would  take  him 
to  Rouen  in  little  more  than  two  hours  ;  he 
could  be  at  Les  Roches  before  dawn — long  be- 
fore Dora  had  wakened ! 

The  two  plump  girls  and  their  mother  gave 
him  wondering  looks,  and  he  did  not  heed 
them.  The  little  fantastic  musician  played 
strange  tricks  with  his  violin,  and  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore had  no  eyes  for  hira  now.  His 
thoughts  were  far  away  in  a  large  room,  hushed 
and  dim,  where  his  wife  lay  sleeping.  A  lamp 
burned  faintly  on  a  white  toilet-table,  and  was 
reflected  in  its  oval  glass,  half  veiled  by  lace 
and  muslin.  A  far  door  opened,  and  he  saw 
himself  enter  slowly,  with  step  that  fell  noise- 
lessly on  the  carpet.  He  saw  that  wraith  of 
his  own  being  approach,  then  stand  still,  and 
look  at  Dora's  face  as  it  rested  on  her  pillow. 
And  now  the  vision  swiftly  became  retrospec- 
tive. He  remembered  looking  at  her  thus 
once  in  Deenah.  He  remembered  wondering, 
as  he  looked,  at  the  childish  calmness  of  her 


slumbering  mien.  The  bright  hair  which  had 
strayed  on  her  pillow,  the  closed  lids,  the  calm 
breath,  came  back  to  him  with  a  sense  of 
pain.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  wronged  and  de- 
serted a  child  intrusted  to  his  keeping. 

"  I  should  have  stayed  with  her,"  he  thought ; 
"  innocent  or  guilty,  I  should  not  have  left  her." 

"  Innocent  or  guilty  ?  "  repeated  a  secret 
voice. 

"  Oh  !  my  God,  if  she  be  guilty,  what  a  lot 
is  mine !  Am  I  tied  to  treachery,  to  sin  so 
perversely  allied  with  that  look  of  innocence  ? 
Am  I  tied  to  grace  and  youth,  it  is  true,  but 
also  to  horrible  iniquity  ?  " 

All  his  old  anguish  came  back  at  the 
thought.  If  his  passionate  nature,  ardent  and 
susceptible  to  loveliness — as  indeed  is  that  of 
most  men — felt  but  too  keenly  the  power  of 
his  young  wife's  bright  face,  the  nobler  nature 
within  him  made  him  revolt  from  the  thought 
of  this  ignoble  bondage.  He  could  not  en- 
dure the  contrast  between  that  fair  outside 
and  the  sullied  soul.  Ay,  truly,  it  is  hard  to 
us  all  to  think  that  sin  can  abide  behind  the 
roses  of  those  cheeks  and  the  star-like  radi- 
ance of  those  eyes.  It  is  hard  that  we  should 
not  ever  find  the  breath  of  innocence  on  those 
fresh  young  lips,  which  give  us  heaven  when 
they  smile.  It  is  a  cruel  case,  but  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore had  not  reached  thirty  without  know- 
ing that  it  is  a  frequent  one — only  he  had 
never  thought  it  would  be  his.  The  bitter 
doubt  now  waxed  higher  and  higher,  sweep 
ing  away  before  it  every  tender  fancy,  every 
flower  of  love  or  hope.  His  neighbors 
watched  his  darkening  face  and  gloomy  eyes 
with  something  like  uneasiness.  What  had 
brought  him  here,  a  sullen,  uncongenial 
stranger,  freezing  the  mere  thought  of  pleas- 
ure away ! 

The  curtain  rose,  the  second  act  began. 
At  first  he  heeded  nothing,  but  the  girl  who 
reminded  him  of  Dora  appeared  again,  and 
again  the  subtle  thrill  ran  through  his  veins 


AT  THE  JEWELLER'3. 


251 


and  subdued  him.  This  time,  too,  he  paid 
some  attention  to  thd  play.  It  was  a  love- 
drama,  with  many  a  passionate  scene,  and  no 
doubt  some  pathos,  for  the  two  girls  next  Mr. 
Templemore  brought  out  their  pocket-hand- 
kerchiefs, and  used  them  freely.  Indeed,  he 
saw  a  good  deal  of  this  going  on  around  him, 
but  he  remained  callous  and  unmoved,  till, 
all  unwillingly,  he  was  conquered.  This  hero- 
ine had  married  a  man  whom  she  did  not  like, 
and  her  husband,  discovering  it  too  late,  felt 
and  said,  "  I  shall  never  be  loved — ^never !  " 
The  curtain  fell  as  he  uttered  the  words, 
which  rang  through  Mr.  Templemore's  brain, 
wakening  a  whole  train  of  fond  recollection. 
Dora  was  his  wife,  but  she  loved  him.  Ay, 
though  her  sins  were  of  the  deepest  and  tiie 
darkest  dye,  she  loved  him  and  she  was  his — 
for  better,  for  worse,  she  was  his.  He  could 
not  renounce  her  or  exclude  her  from  his  life 
and  his  heart.  Religion,  duty  combined  with 
love  to  say  to  him,  "  Why  did  you  leave  her  ? 
Had  you  not  vowed  that  your  arms  should  be 
her  shelter  from  every  ill ;  and  is  it  not  her 
right  to  live  and  die  by  your  side  ?  You  can- 
not banish  her  thence  without  sin — then  thank 
Heaven  that  her  affection,  her  youth  and  its 
attractions,  make  obedience  to  this  duty  so 
easy  and  so  sweet." 

Mr.  Templemore  heard  this  secret  monitor, 
and  he  did  not  answer  it  at  once.  He  leaned 
his  forehead  on  his  hand,  and  let  a  vision 
come  before  him — a  vision  of  a  tearful  yet 
happy  Dora,  who  welcomed  him  back  with 
a  smile  and  a  kiss.  Often  had  she  come  thus 
to  him  before  this  hour,  and  as  often  had  he 
banished  her  with  a  stern  "  Begone ! "  But 
now  he  could  not — he  would  not.  She  was 
his  wife,  and  there  was  a  protecting  tender- 
ness in  his  embrace.  She  was  bis  wife,  and 
his  heart  yearned  toward  her  with  infinite 
charity.  His  love  should  cover  all  her  errors, 
and  lead  her  back  to  those  pure  paths  whence 
she  had  strayed  ;  his  love  should  be  to  her  as 


a  human  redemption,  making  more  easy  her 
return  to  the  divine  source  of  all  goodness. 
She  was  his  erring  lamb,  who  had  wandered 
in  the  wilderness,  and  whom  he  would  bring 
back  to  the  gentle  fold  of  love  and  homo. 
He  remembered  the  solemn  precept,  too,  much 
forgotten  by  a  passing  world  of  the  great 
Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  : 

"  Husbands,  love  your  wives,  as  Christ 
loved  the  Church.'' 

He  remembered  it  in  that  vanity  fair  of 
pleasure  and  its  votaries,  a  theatre.  For  what 
spot,  howsoever  profane,  is  there  which  the 
voice  of  God  will  not  pierce  to  reach  man's 
heart  ?  And  if  human  passion  and  tender- 
ness still  mingled  in  Mr.  Templemore's  breast 
with  holier  feelings — if  he  could  not  forget  a 
fair  face  and  a  soft  voice — if  one  was  the  joy 
of  his  eyes,  and  the  other  the  sweetest  of 
music  to  his  ear,  yet  over  all  ruled  that  feel- 
ing of  duty  that  had  been  the  great  guide  of 
bis  life,  and  which  had  given  him  in  Dora 
Courtenay  its  mingled  joy  and  torment. 

How  long  these  thoughts  kept  him,  Mr. 
Templemore  did  not  know.  The  third  act 
was  progressing,  and  had  reached  its  great 
crisis  of  despair  and  passion,  when  he  looked 
at  his  watch,  rose,  and  left  the  house.  The 
two  girls  and  their  mother  looked  after  him 
in  some  wonder,  and  exchanged  puzzled 
glances,  then  placidly  returned  to  the  play. 
Truly  they  little  guessed  what  a  drama  of 
doubt,  and  love,  and  regret — ay,  and  of  pas- 
sion too — had  been  silently  enacted  near 
them  that  evening. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

The  night  was  darker  than  ever  when  Mr. 
Templemore  went  out  once  more  on  the  Boule- 
vards. The  crowd  was  thinning,  in  expecta- 
tion of  a  storm.  Mr.  Templemore's  mood  was 
not  one  which  such  contingencies  affect.    He 


252 


DORA. 


had  but  one  thought,  and  that  mastered  him ; 
jet  he  suddenly  paused,  as  he  reached  the  Rue 
de  la  Pais,  and  saw  its  shops  alive  with  light. 
He  remembered  the  diamond  cross  he  had  or- 
dered from  one  of  the  jewellers  there,  and  he 
wondered  if  it  were  ready.  It  was  only  ten 
o'clock  ;  he  had  time  to  go  and  try. 

These  jewellers'  shops  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix  were  a  wonderful  sight  at  night  during 
that  year.  Crowds  gathered  around  them 
evening  after  evening,  gazing  in  eager  admira- 
tion at  the  treasures  displayed  within.  One  dia- 
mond shop  outrivalled  all  the  others,  and  out- 
rivals them  still.  Tiaras,  necklaces,  bracelets, 
ear-rings,  blazed  in  tlieir  immortal  splendor. 
Fair  brows  and  fairer  bosoms,  on  which  they 
glittered  once,  have  shrunk  into  dust,  and  it 
matters  very  little.  They  will  outlive  genera- 
tions; that  gorgeous  bracelet  will  clasp  the 
slender  wrist,  that  diadem  will  shine  all  light 
in  the  dark  hair  of  some  beauty  yet  unborn, 
and  flatterers  will  tell  her,  "Your  eyes  are 
brighter  by  far  than  these,"  and — who  knows  ? 
— perhaps  she  will  believe  them. 

As  to  that,  all  the  diamonds  in  this  shop, 
which  he  now  entered,  could  not  have  matched 
Dora's  eyes  in  Mr.  Templemore's  estimation 
just  then.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  their  lustre 
would  grow  dim — that  the  blooming  cheek 
would  fade,  and  the  fair  skin  lose  its  youthful 
beauty — but  all  the  better  reason  was  this  for 
holding  them  dear,  and  adorning  them  whilst 
they  lasted.  With  something  like  eagerness, 
he  now  asked  if  the  cross  he  had  ordered  was 
ready. 

This  temple  of  the  god  worshipped  in  Gol- 
conda  had  a  high-priest  worthy  of  his  ofBee — 
an  aged  man,  vdth  a  lofty  brow,  white  hair, 
that  flowed  from  beneath  a  black  silk  cap,  and 
eyes  which  had  gazed  so  long  on  diamonds 
that  they  could  see  little  else  in  life.  On 
hearing  Mr.  Templemore's  request,  he  opened 
a  drawer  near  him,  and  produced  a  small 
morocco  case,  which  he  handed  to  his  cus- 


tomer. Mr.  Templemore  opened  it.  On  a 
bed  of  blue  velvet  lay  a  diamond  cross,  con- 
sisting of  eleven  perfect  diamonds,  not  of  large 
size,  indeed,  but  of  such  exquisite  water,  and 
such  dazzling  lustre,  that  he  uttered  an  excla- 
mation of  pleasure  and  admiration,  qualified, 
however,  by  the  words  : 

"  This  is  surely  more  expensive  than  the  one 
I  asked  from  you  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  mildly  replied  the  jeweller ;  "  double 
the  price,  I  believe;  but,  then,  it  is  three 
times  more  beautiful  than  you  expected  it  to 
be." 

Mr.  Templemore  could  not  deny  that.  He 
took  the  cross  and  looked  at  it  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  Each  of  its  eleven  diamonds 
v/as  pure  and  clear  as  a  drop  of  morning  dew 
sparkling  in  the  early  sun.  "  Will  you  take  a 
check  for  this?"  he  asked;  "I  have  not 
money  enough  to  pay  you — besides,  I  am  going 
off  at  once." 

"  A  check  will  do  very  well,"  replied  the 
jeweller,  in  his  mild  tone.  "  This  is  the 
fifteenth,  sir — the  fifteenth  of  July." 

And  as  Mr.  Templemore  sat  down  to  fill  up 
the  blank  check  which  he  took  from  his 
pocket-book,  the  jeweller  opened  the  drawer 
again  and  took  out  another  morocco  case, 
which  he  silently  placed  before  him. 

"  I  only  ordered  the  cross,"  said  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, looking  up,  puzzled. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  a  necklace,"  sug- 
gested this  mild  tempter ;  and  he  opei:ed  the 
case  and  stepped  back. 

Mr.  Templemore  was  dazzled.  He  had  never 
seen  such  a  necklace  as  this.  A  queen  alone 
could  have  worn  it.  This  was  no  conjunction 
of  small  diamonds  artfully  mounted  in  leaves, 
and  flowers,  and  pendants,  and  spread  out  to 
the  greatest  possible  extent.  No,  it  was  one 
plain  row  of  large  stones,  every  one  of  which 
seemed  priceless  to  Mr.  Templemore.  Dora- 
had  a  beautiful  neck,  soft  and  white — truly 
these  diamonds  would  lock  well  upon  it.    But 


THE  DIAMOND  CROSS  AND   NECKLACE. 


253 


■was  Le  a  nabob,  that  he  should  even  ask  to 
know  the  price  of  a  gift  so  costly  ? 

"  I  chose  every  one  of  those  stones  myself," 
said  the  jeweller;  "I  went  to  Russia  for  this 
centre  one,  and  to  London  for  that,  one  of  the 
smallest,  but,  as  you  see,  it  matches  the  ninth 
stone  perfectly,  and  unless  in  London  I  could 
not  have  found  it.  It  cost  me  three  months 
to  negotiate  for  it,  for  it  was  in  hands  that 
■were  reluctant  to  part  with  it — they  knew  its 
value  and  its  beauty,  and  it  is  one  of  the  small- 
est in  the  necklace.  Guess  from  that,  sir, 
■what  toil  and  trouble  the  other  stones  have 
given  me." 

"  It  is  a  ■wonderful  necklace,"  said  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore,  taking  and  handling  it — "  a  ■wonder- 
ful necklace ;  only  there  is  uo  art  in  it.  It  is 
plain  and  gorgeous." 

"  There  should  be  no  art  in  diamonds,"  re- 
plied the  jeweller,  ■with  a  strange  light  in  his 
eye.     "  They  are  above  and  beyond  it,  sir." 

"  Well,  perhaps  they  are,"  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  but  he  put  down  the  necklace,  and  did 
not  ask  to  kuo^w  its  price. 

"  I  believe,  sir,  you  are  newly  married," 
continued  the  jeweller,  in  his  mild  tone  ;  "  this 
would  be  a  beautiful  wedding-gift." 

Mr.  Templemore  felt  almost  provoked  at  this 
cool  seducer,  v,ho  spoke  of  a  priceless  neck- 
lace as  a  "  beautiful  wedding-gift."  He  little 
knew  that  its  owner  offered  it  to  every  one  of 
the  customers  who  entered  his  shop,  pressed  it 
upon  them  even  to  importunity,  and  yet  would 
not  have  parted  to  a  monarch  with  one  of  its 
smallest  diamonds.  He  little  suspected  that 
these  glorious  bits  of  liquid  light,  all  fire  and 
pure  effulgence,  slept  every  night  in  the  bed 
of  that  white-haired  man — that  he  loved  them 
with  something  of  the  guilty,  insane  love  which 
two  hundred  years  before  made  Cardillac 
murder  the  men  and  women  who  bought  his 
jewels ;  and  that  when  they  were  stolen  from 
him  a  few  months  after  Mr.  Templemorc''s 
visit,  the  shock  of  their  loss,  though  they  were 


recovered  within  the  week,  sent  him  to  the 
grave  a  maniac. 

Unconscious  of  the  strange  love  which  was 
to  lead  to  so  tragic  an  ending,  Mr.  Templemore 
only  felt  provoked  at  the  persistence  with  which 
the  jeweller  pressed  this  necklace  upon  him, 
and  putting  the  cross  in  his  breast  coat-pocket, 
he  left  the  shop.  The  jeweller,  however,  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  door,  and  stUl  said  in  his  mild 
voice : 

"  It  13  a  rare  necklace,  sir.  You  will  never 
get  another  like  it — better  have  it." 

Mr.  Templemore  walked  away  without  giv- 
ing him  any  answer.  "  The  man  is  crazy,  and 
I  am  crazy  too,"  he  thought,  taking  the  direc- 
tion that  led  to  his  hotel ;  "  I  suppose  those 
glittering  pebbles  have  bewitched  me,  for  here 
am  i  foolish  enough  to  wish  I  could  buy  them 
and  throw  them  round  Dora's  neck. 

It  was  folly,  no  doubt,  but  it  did  not  go  away 
at  once.  He  saw  the  diamonds  glittering  be- 
fore him  like  stars  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
He  saw  them  sparkling  on  his  wife's  bosom, 
and  if  diamonds  look  strange  and  ominous  on 
yellow  necks  and  bony  shoulders,  who  can 
deny  their  fitness  and  their  beauty  when  they 
rest  on  a  satin  skin  and  rounded  outlines  like 
Dora's  ?  Mr.  Templemore  was  fascinated  with 
the  vision.  He  felt  almost  tempted  to  turn 
back  and  ask  the  price  of  this  wonderful  neck- 
lace ;  but  he  checked  himself  in  time,  and  in- 
deed waxed  wrathful  at  his  own  folly.  A  year's 
income  of  his  fortune  could  not  pay  for  the 
bauble.  Had  he  lost  his  senses  that  he  even 
contemplated  this  act  of  madness  ?  Alas  !  it 
was  not  all  madness — there  is  a  fond,  passion- 
ate instinct,  which  is  a  very  part  of  love — the 
wish  to  fling  all  that  there  is  most  costly,  most 
precious,  and  most  rare,  at  the  feet  of  the  loved 
object.  For  many  days  Mr.  Templemore  had 
struggled  against  his  love  for  Dora,  and  spile  his 
doubts  and  his  misgivings,  that  love  now  came 
back  to  him  powerful,  mighty,  and  triumphant. 
It  came  back  to  him  not  as  it  hadleft  bim,  con- 


254 


DORA. 


quered  and  sorrow-stricken,  but  like  the  spirit 
in  Scripture,  who,  after  wandering  midst  bar- 
ren places,  returns  with  sevenfold  power. 

Mr.  Templemore  had  not  walked  far,  still 
thinking  of  his  wife  and  the  diamond  necklace, 
when  the  long-threatening  storm  broke  forth. 
Drops  of  rain,  large  as  crown-pieces,  dotted  the 
white  pavement  of  the  Place  Venddme,  which 
he  was  crossing.  Then  a  lightnmg-flash  pierced 
the  sky,  and  lit  the  dark  column  cast  in  can- 
non won  from  many  a  battle-field,  and  whence 
the  first  Napoleon  looks  down  over  his  capital, 
still  seeming  to  triumph  alike  over  foe  and 
subject.  A  deep-echoing  thunder-peal  fol- 
lowed, then  came  a  very  deluge  of  rain,  and  long 
before  he  reached  his  hotel.  Rue  de  Rivoli,  Mr. 
Templemore  was  wet  through.  The  rain  was 
summer  rain,  mild  and  soft,  and  he  cared  not 
for  it.  He  packed  his  trunk  hastily,  secured 
a  carriage,  and  drove  off  to  the  station,  whilst 
the  storm  was  at  its  highest.  It  was  a  gale, 
too,  as  well  as  a  storm ;  a  furious  tempest,  which 
might  leave  its  traces  on  many  a  bleak  coast, 
as  well  as  in  crowded  cities.  Mr.  Templemore 
had  seen  a  shipwreck  once,  and  who  that  has 
beheld  the  ominous  sight  can  ever  forget  it  ? 
,  He  remembered  it  now ;  the  noble  vessel  strug- 
gling gallantly  against  the  waves  that  (frove 
her  on,  the  long  line  of  shore  and  cliff  vanish- 
ing in  spray  and  in  the  darkness  of  the  tem- 
pest ;  the  pale  moon  looking  down  from  a  cloudy 
sky,  the  silent  crowd,  and  the  fearful  r&ar,  as 
waves  and  ship  all  came  tumbling  together  on 
the  beach,  whilst  through  all  the  din  was  to  be 
heard  the  fliint,  shrill  cry  of  a  woman.  They 
found  heron  the  sands  the  next  morning,  a  pale 
corpse,  with  wet  hair.  Mr.  Templemore  won- 
dered why  that  scene  came  back  to  him  now, 
as  if  he  had  beheld  it  but  yesterday  ? 

"  How  do  I  know,"  he  thought,  "  that  this 
summer  storm  will  be  so  fiital  as  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  equinoctial  gale  on  the  shores  of 
the  Atlantic  ?  Its  roaring  wind  may  indeed 
uproot  the  mighty  forest-tree,  or  its  lightning 


kill  helpless  flocks  on  distant  moors  ;  but  truly 
I  hope  and  trust  that  no  drowning  wretch  will 
call  on  Heaven  this  night  in  his  agony  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  reached  the  station  as  the 
express  train  was  going  to  start.  Within  five 
minutes  he  sat  alone  in  a  railway-carriage,  and 
was  going  at  full  speed  through  the  drenched 
landscape.  And  now  he  had  time  to  think 
over  a  subject  of  some  importance. 

How  would  his  wife  receive  him  ?  He  re- 
turned to  her  as  he  had  left  her— at  his 
pleasure.  He  could  give  no  motive  for  the 
one  act,  save  that  he  did  not  choose  to  stay 
with  her,  and  for  the  other  that  he  could  do 
without  her  no  longer.  Would  Dora,  a  proud 
woman,  accept  either  explanation  ?  Had  he 
not,  then,  best  be  silent,  and  take  upon  him- 
self that  law  of  bon  plaisir  which  every  now 
and  then  comes  up  in  the  heart  even  of  the 
best  of  men  ?  For,  after  all,  Mr.  Templemore 
could  not  ask  his  wife  to  forgive  him.  If  his 
passion  for  her,  supported  by  necessity,  was 
so  strong  that  he  could  not  resist  it,  and  must 
needs  go  back  to  her,  innocent  or  guilty,  yet, 
spite  all  the  diamonds  he  had  wished  to  give 
her,  he  was  not  a  convinced  and  converted 
man.  He  would  have  given  anything  to  be- 
lieve in  her  innocence,  and  doubt  still  forbade 
belief — even  though  his  whole  heart  yearned 
toward  the  one  and  revolted  against  the  other. 
With  a  sort  of  despair  he  went  over  the  whole 
sad  story  again,  and  wearied,  but  still  per- 
plexed, he  came  back  to  the  old  thought: 
"  She  is  my  wife  ;  I  cannot  help  that  no  more 
than  I  can  help  loving  her — I  must  keep  to 
that,  and  let  the  rest  be." 

But  can  love  endure  when  its  foundation  of 
reverence  is  wanting  ?  And  if  the  fever  which 
was  still  so  strong  upon  him  ceased,  would 
not  the  final  wakening  be  horrible  ?  Alas  ! 
he  thought  of  that  too  ;  but  that  time,  which 
it  was  so  gloomy  to  foresee,  had  not  come  yet, 
and  as  i\Q  reached  Rouen,  and,  leaving  the 
train,  entered  a  carriage  which  was  to  convey 


NEWS  OF  DEATH  IN  THE  FAMILY. 


255 


him  to  Les  Rocbes,  he  wilfully  sliut  his  eyes 
to  all  the  bitterness  that  had  preceded  his  de- 
parture, and  only  remembered  that  he  was 
going  to  the  home  where  his  young  wife  lay 
sleeping,  unconscious  of  his  return. 

The  porter  at  the  lodge  had  to  be  wakened 
to  let  in  his  master,  and  Jacques  to  leave  his 
attic  in  order  to  admit  him  within.  The  clang 
of  the  great  bell,  the  grinding  wheels  of  the 
cari'iage  on  the  gravel,  made  a  loud  noise  in 
the  stillness  of  the  gray  morning ;  but  Mr. 
Templemore  looked  in  vain  for  signs  of  light 
behind  the  window  curtains  of  his  wife's  room. 
Jacques,  who  let  him  in,  seemed  stupid  with 
sleep.  His  master  did  not  question  him ;  he 
took  the  light  from  the  man's  hand,  merely 
saying: 

"  You  may  go.     I  want  nothing." 

Jacques  was  a  plethoric  young  man.  He 
liked  his  sleep  above  all  things.  He  now 
thought  himself  ill-used  by  his  master's  return 
at  such  an  hour,  and  he  went  back  to  his 
room  grumbling  all  the  way.  He  had  scarcely 
reached  the  upper  floor,  however,  when  a 
furious  ringing  summoned  him  below.  He 
found  Mr.  Templemore  on  the  landing  at  the 
door  of  his  wife's  room,  pale  as  death,  and 
with  the  light  still  in  his  hand. 

"  Where  is  your  mistress  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Where  is  my  wife  ?  " 

His  looks,  his  tones  so  confounded  Jacques, 
that  he  could  scarcely  reply.  At  length  he 
said, 

"  Madame  is  gone." 

"  Gone !  "  He  was  going  to  ask  "  With 
whom  ?  "  but  he  checked  himself.  "  Tell 
Madame  Courtenay  I  wish  to  speak  to  her," 
he  said. 

Jacques  looked  very  odd. 

"  Madame  Courtenay  is  dead,  sir." 

"Dead?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  Mademoiselle  Fanny  brought 
the  news  when  she  came  back  for  Madame's 
things.     Madame  Courtenay  died  on  the  way." 


"And  Madame  Luan  and  her  son,"  ex- 
claimed Mr.  Templemore — "  where  are  they  ?  " 
Jacques  looked  vcr  j'  odd  again. 
"  Monsieur  Luan  is  gone,  sir,  we  do  not 
know  where,  and  Madame  Luan  is  dead  too. 
She  died  in  a  madhouse  the  very  morning 
Madame  Templemore  went  away.  She  had 
attempted  to  kill  madame  one  evening." 

Mr.  Templemore  felt  as  if  he  were  going 
through  a  dreadful  nightmare.  Death,  mad- 
ness, danger  had  visited  his  deserted  home 
during  his  absence :  and  now  where  wa3 
Dora  ?  Where  was  the  wife  whom  he  had 
left  to  trials  so  fearful,  and  who  had  passed 
through  them  alone  ? 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asked,  much 
agitated.     "  Where  did  she  go  to  ?  " 

"Monsieur  Luan  took  her  to  an  asylum, 
and  she  died  there." 

"  I  mean  your  mistress.  Where  is  your 
mistress  ?  " 

But  Jacques  knew  nothing.  Madame  had 
not  said  anything.  She  had  left  no  letter? 
No  —  nothing  that  could  give  a  clew.  Ma- 
demoiselle Fanny,  when  she  came  back  for 
madame's  things  had  said  they  were  going  to 
England,  and  the  servants  had  supposed  it 
was  to  join  monsieur.  The  servants  had  all 
noticed  that  madame  looked  very  miserable. 
Perhaps  she  felt  nervous,  and  afraid  to  remain 
alone  after  having  run  the  risk  of  being  mur- 
dered. ' 

So  said  Jacques,  in  a  heavy,  stupid,  monoto- 
nous voice.  Mr.  Templemore  shuddered  with 
horror  as  he  heard  him  talk  thus  stolidly  of 
his  wife's  peril.  Yet  he  could  not  help  ask- 
ing to  know  the  particulars  of  this  domestie 
drama.  Jacques,  nothing  loath,  and  indeed 
quite  lively,  went  through  the  scene  for  his 
master's  benefit,  "Madame  was  so  by  the 
toilet,  when  she  heard  the  door  open  and  saw 
Madame  Luan  enter.  At  once,  and  with  great 
presence  of  mind,  madame  put  out  the  light 
and  stepped  out  on  the  balcony.    And  so," 


256 


DORA. 


continued  Jacques,  assuming  the  part  of  Mrs. 
Luan  and  groping  witli  outstretched  arms,  as 
if  in  the  darliuess  toward  the  window,  "  so  I 
try  to  get  at  her  and  kill  her.  Though  I  can- 
not see,  I  know  where  she  is,  and  she  is  as 
mute  as  a  mouse — but  I  know  where  she  is — 
now  I  am  at  the  window,  and  the  moon  is 
shining — now  I  have  her ! " 

But  as  Jacques,  outstripping  truth  in  the 
fervor  of  his  acting,  was  stretching  his  arm 
toward  an  imaginary  Dora,  a  hand  of  iron 
seized  his  own  throat  and  held  him  fast. 

"  How  dare  you  ?  How  dare  you  ?  "  asked 
Mr.  Templemore,  shaking  with  anger ;  then 
recovering  his  composure,  he  said,  not  without 
some  shame  at  his  own  violence,  "  You  may 
leave  me  now,  Jacques." 

"And  I  can  tell  you  I  left  him  pretty 
quickly,"  was  Jacques's  comment  as  he  I'C- 
lated  this  incident  to  the  porter  the  next  morn- 
ing. "  For  if  ever  man  looked  like  a  tiger,  it 
was  our  master  as  he  held  me  then." 

Mr.  Templemore  remained  alone  in  his  wife's 
room,  and  locked  himself  up  with  this  new 
trouble. 

He  sat  down  and  looked  around  him.  Was 
this  indeed  the  return  to  which  he  had  looked 
.  forward  ?  This  cold,  vacant  chamber  bore  no 
likeness  to  that  which  his  fancy  had  conjured 
up  a  few  hours  before  in  the  theatre.  Dust 
had  gathered  on  the  mirroi'  of  the  toilet-table, 
.  and  thus  told  him  how  long  it  had  ceased  to 
reflect  Dora's  image.  No  token  of  her  pres- 
ence lingered  about.  It  was  as  if  Mr.  Temple- 
more had  never  seen  her  there,  sleeping  or 
waking.  The  very  air  of  the  unused  apart- 
ment had  grown  chill.  Ah !  this  was  not 
the  meeting  he  had  imagined  as  he  came  up 
the  staircase  Avith  a  beating  heart.  Where 
were  the  tears  and  reproaches  he  was  to  si- 
lence with  caresses  ?  His  wife  was  gone,  and, 
insupportable  thought !  she  was  gone  with  just 
anger  and  bitterness  in  her  heart  against  him. 
Was   she  innocent  or  guilty  ?     He  did  not 


think  of  that  now.  He  only  thought  that. he 
had  forsaken  her,  and  that  she  had  gone  alone 
through  frightful  danger  and  bitter  sorrow. 
Where  was  he  when  the  madwoman  attempted 
her  life  ? — when  her  mothers  eyes  closed  in 
death  ?  His  eyes  grew  dim,  his  lip  quivered 
at  the  question.  Oh !  fatal  error,  ever  to  have 
lef  ther — fatal,  and  in  one  sense  irreparable, 
she  was  his  wife,  the  law  gave  him  full  power 
over  her — he  could  pursue  the  fugitive  and 
compel  her  return;  but  could  he  make  her 
forget  that  he  had  believed  a  madwoman's 
story  against  her  ? 

And  these  were  not  Mr.  Templemore's  only 
thoughts.  If  Famiy's  assertion  were  to  be  be- 
lieved, his  wife  had  gone  to  England  after  her 
mother's  death.  What  for,  and  to  whom  ? 
Surely  not  to  John  Luan !  Yet  Dora  had  no 
friends  in  England — at  least,  she  had  often 
said  so.     Then  what  took  her  there  ? 

Mr.  Templemore  could  not  bear  to  wrong 
her  in  this  matter.  And  yet  the  thought  that 
she  had  gone  to  England,  that  she  was  near 
John  Luan,  that  she  had  her  cousin  to  comfort 
her  in  her  sorrow,  and  to  sympathize  with  her 
in  her  wrongs,  was  more  than  he  could  endure. 
It  revived  his  lurking  jealousy,  and  gave  it 
both  form  and  substance.  This  young  man 
loved  Dora ;  and  it  is  not  pleasant,  even  to 
the  least  jealous  of  husbands,  to  think  that 
the  wife  whom  he  has  injured  receives  con- 
solation from  a  rejected  lover.  And  this  had 
been  going  on  for  days  and  weeks !  The 
thought  stung  him.  She  was  his  wife,  after 
all.  What  right  had  she  to  leave  his  home 
without  a  word,  spoken  or  written,  and  go  to 
a  strange  city  and  stay  there  ?  What  right 
had  she  to  expose  their  domestic  diflFerenccs 
to  the  world  by  a  flight  he  could  not  attempt 
to  disguise?  Gradually  Mr.  Templemore  for- 
got the  wrongs  he  had  inflicted,  and  only 
remembered  those  he  had  received.  He  re- 
membered them ;  and  with  something  like 
wrath  he  resolved  to  set  off  for  England  at 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 


257 


once,  follow  his  wife,  and  bring  her  back  with- 
out delay.  "  Whether  she  likes  it  or  not  she 
shall  return,"  he  thought,  ringing  the  bell 
angrily  for  Jacques,  who  had  just  fallen  into  a 
pleasant  doze.  "  She  shall  return  to  this 
house,  which  she  should  never  have  left." 

But  of  all  men  Mr.  Templemore  was  the 
last  who  could  stifle  the  voice  of  conscience. 
He  had  left  both  his  wife  and  his  home.  She 
had  only  left  the  house  whence  her  aunt  had 
been  removed  insane,  whence  he  had  banished 
her  mother,  where  not  even  his  child  had  been 
trusted  to  her  care. 

"  I  have  been  to  blame,"  thought  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore, with  a  sharp,  remorseful  pang;  "  but 
I  will  make  amends — I  will  make  amends." 

How  many  an  erring  heart  has  uttered  the 
■words,  and,  alas !  to  how  few  the  power  to  ful- 
fil them  has  been  granted  ! 


CHAPTER   XLVm. 

A  DISTANT  church  clock  was  striking  eleven 
when  Dr.  John  Luan  turned  the  corner  of 
Bedford  Square.  He  had  scarcely  walked  a 
few  steps  toward  his  dwelling  when  a  hand 
was  laid  on  his  shoulder.  He  looked  round 
sharply,  and,  by  the  light  of  a  gas-lamp,  he 
saw  Mr.  Templemore.  They  had  never  met, 
yet  John  Luan  knew  at  once  this  was  Dora's 
husband. 

"  Good-evening,"  gravely  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more. "  I  believe  you  know  me.  Your  ser- 
vant told  me  you  are  going  away  early  to- 
morrow morning,  so  I  shall  not  detain  you 
long.  My  errand  is  quickly  told.  Mrs.  Tem- 
plemore forgot  to  leave  her  direction  when  she 
went  a^ay  from  Les  Eoches.  May  I  trouble 
you  for  it  ?  " 

John  Luan  had  got  over  the  shock  of  un- 
pleasant astonishment  he  had  felt  on  seeing 
Dora's  husband,  but  this  abrupt  demand  star- 
tled him  anew. 
17 


"  You  want  Dora's  address  from  me  I "  he 
said,  sharply. 

"Why  not?  You  do  not  mean  to  say,  I 
suppose,  that  your  cousin  is  here  in  London 
without  your  knowledge,  Mr.  Luan  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  your  wife  is 
here  in  London  without  your  knowledge,  Mr. 
Templemore  ?  " 

He  spoke  with  bitter  emphasis,  but  Mr. 
Templemore  had  come  resolved  not  to  lose  his 
temper. 

"  Am  I  likely  to  put  such  a  question  with- 
out need  ?  "  he  said,  gravely. 

And  so  she  bad  left  him  !  His  cruelty  and 
his  unkiudness  had  compelled  her  to  leave  her 
home  and  her  husband.  And  her  wronger 
now  applied  to  the  man  whom  he  had  robbed 
of  his  treasure  for  information  concerning  the 
spot  where  it  lay  concealed !  John  Luan's 
blood  boiled  within  him — but  he  was  not  given 
to  express  anger,  and  he  only  said  with  sulky 
bitterness : 

"  I  know  nothing  about  your  wife,  Mr.  Tem- 
23lemore." 

He  turned  to  the  house,  as  if  to  end  the 
matter ;  but  Mr.  Templemore  quietly  stepped 
between  him  and  the  door. 

"  I  will  not  be  balked  thus,"  he  said,  dog- 
gedly. "  I  impute  no  wrong  to  her  or  to  you, 
but  you  know  her  address,  and  I  will  have 
it!" 

"  You  impute  no  wrong,"  repeated  John 
Luan,  in  great  indignation ;  "  and  pray  what 
wrong  could  there  be  ?  just  tell  me  that,  sir. 
And,  moreover,  what  do  you  mean  by  coming 
to  me  to  ask  for  your  wife  ?  Ask  her  mother, 
ask  Mrs.  Courtenay  where  she  is,  and  do  not 
trouble  me  with  a  matter  in  which  I  have  no 
concern." 

"  Doctor  John  Luan,"  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more, with  some  disdain,  "  Mrs.  Courtenay  is 
dead,  and  I  dare  say  you  know  it." 

"  Dead  ! "  repeated  John  Luan,  with  such 
genuine  amazement  that  Mr.  Templemore'a 


258 


DORA. 


heart  fell.  If  the  young  man  did  not  know 
that,  he  knew  nothing.  Where,  then,  was 
Dora? 

The  same  question  seemed  to  offer  itself  to 
the  mind  of  Dora's  cousin.  He  turned  almost 
fiercely  on  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  he  said.  "  Wlien  and 
how  did  my  aunt  die  ?    Where  is  Dora  ?  " 

"  I  was  away  at  the  time,"  answered  Mr. 
Templemore,  briefly  ;  "  I  believe  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay  died  in  England,  but  I  have  no  cer- 
tainty." 

"  And  why  were  you  away  ? "  tauntingly 
asked  John  Luan.  "  What !  married  a  fort- 
night, and  away  so  long  that  your  mother-in- 
law  is  dead,  and  your  wife  is  vanished  when 
you  return  ?  " 

"  Why  I  went  away  your  mother  might 
have  told  you,"  bitterly  answered  Mr.  Temple- 
more ;  "but  let  that  rest.  I  did  not  come  here 
to  account  to  you  for  matters  of  which  you 
are  no  judge.  You  say  you  do  not  know 
where  Dora  is.  Be  it  so.  You  can  give  me 
no  information,  and  I  have  nothing  to  tell 
you." 

He  left  him  as  he  spoke  thus ;  but  John 
Luan  soon  overtook  him. 

"  Have  you  nothing  to.  tell  me?"  he  said, 
losing  all  self-control  in  the  bitterness  of  his 
feelings  ;  "  but  may  be  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you.  I  tell  you,  sir,  that  if  Dora  does 
not  soon  appear,  I  shall  hold  you  guilty  of  her 
fate,  whatever  that  may  be.  I  tell  you  there 
is  a  great  fear  upon  me,  and  that  if  this  double 
grief  should  have  proved  too  much  for  her,  I 
shall  hold  you  guilty  before  God  and  man !  " 

"  A  fear — what  fear  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Temple- 
more, who  was  almost  as  angry  as  John  Luan 
now. 

"  You  know  what  fear,"  was  the  taunting 
reply,  "  for  you  feel  it  too.  You  know  what 
fear,  for  it  brought  you  here  to  question  me. 
I  say  it  again,  if  it  prove  true,  I  shall  hold 
you  guilty." 


He  walked  away  abruptly,  and  Mr.  Temple- 
more did  not  follow  him. 

"  I  suppose  he  has  a  touch  of  his  mother's 
madness,"  he  thought,  trying  to  conquer  his 
wrath  by  scorn. 

He  felt  angry,  and  nothing  else.  The  fear 
John  Luan  had  alluded  to  could  take  no  hold 
upon  him.  That  Dora  had  left  him  in  anger 
he  knew — that  she  could  have  left  him  in  the 
despair  which  leads  to  the  darkest  end  of  a 
human  life  he  would  not  admit  for  a  moment, 
and  as  he,  too,  walked  away  in  hot  indigna- 
tion, he  wondered  that  John  Luan  should 
have  dared  to  suggest  a  close  so  cruel  to 
Dora's  brief  wedded  life.  But  if  Mr.  Temple- 
more rejected  with  anger  and  scorn  this  tor- 
turing conjecture,  he  was  full  of  perplexity 
and  grief  as  he  walked  home  to  his  hotel.  He 
knew  nothing,  he  had  learned  nothing,  and  he 
felt  powerless.  Reason,  philosophy,  and  will 
had  lost  their  boasted  power  over  him  now. 
The  wife  whom  he  had  so  injudiciously  left 
had  fled  from  him,  and  he  knew  not  how  to 
conjure  her  back,  how  to  charm  away  the  sor- 
rows he  had  caused,  how  to  prevent  the  trou- 
bles, and  perhaps  the  dangers,  that  might  be- 
set her  path.  He  knew  that  if  he  could  find 
her  she  would  forgive  him — ^he  did  not  doubt 
that  one  moment ;  only  where  was  the  fugi- 
tive, and  how  far  had  she  fled?  But  if  Mr. 
Templemore  felt  troubled  and  perplexed,  he 
did  not  feel  despondent. 

Money  is  a  great  magician,  and  he  knew  it. 
Money  will  unveil  the  most  closelj^-guarded 
secrets,  and  light  up  some  of  society's  darkest 
and  most  hidden  nooks.  It  is  the  Sesame 
before  which  doors  fly  open,  or  at  whose  bid- 
ding they  close  again  with  inexorable  stern- 
ness. And  money  Mr.  Templemore  had. 
With  money  he  could  soon  be  on  her  track, 
and  arrest  her  flight.  He  was  of  a  sanguine 
disposition,  and  he  now  felt  certain  of  success. 
Perhaps  he  was  rather  pleased,  after  all,  not 
to  have  found  his  wife  through  the  medium  of 


THE  POLICE  AGENT. 


259 


her  cousin.  Perhaps  it  was  more  soothing  to 
his  pride  to  have  to  go  and  seek  and  pacify  her 
himself,  than  to  have  found  her  with  scai'cely 
an  efiFort,  but\hrough  that  young  man's  means. 
However  well  he  might  think  of  Dora,  it  was 
not  to  John  Loan's  care  that  he  would  have 
consigned  her.  But  the  fact  that  she  had  not 
sought  this  young  man,  who,  though  a  lover, 
was  also  her  only  relative,  showed  Mr.  Temple- 
more  that  his  wife  was  still  all  his.  Her  grief 
would  admit  no  comforter,  and  had  no  need 
to  be  spoken.  She  could  make  a  dreary  com- 
panion of  it,  and  take  it  with  her  to  solitude. 
"  I  shall  soon  find  her,"  thought  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore,  as  he  paced  his  room  up  and  down, 
for  he  was  too  restless  for  sleep ;  "  she  is 
either  in  Paris  or  in  London.  In  either  city 
money  will  command  men  whose  scent,  quick- 
ened by  greed,  is  keener  than  that  of  blood- 
hounds, and  who  will  detect  her  refuge,  how- 
ever close  it  may  be.  I  shall  soon  find  her,  in 
a  week — in  ten  days,  perhaps — in  a  fortnight, 
at  the  utmost." 

He  looked  out  of  the  window  on  the  gas-lit 
streets  ;  he  longed  to  detect  a  grayness  in  the 
black  sky  and  be  gone  ;  but  time  and  tide, 
which  wait  for  no  man,  will  also  hurry  their 
course  for  none.  All  Mr.  Teniplemore's  im- 
patience only  made  the  night  seem  more 
tedious,  and  took  not  one  second's  weight 
from  its  feverish  hours.  At  length  day  came, 
and  with  it  departure.  The  train  flew  through 
the  country,  the  steamboat  crossed  the  sea  ;  a 
few  hours  more,  and  Mr.  Templemore,  after 
stopping  on  a  needful  errand  in  Rouen,  entered 
Les  Roches.  He  met  Jacques  as  he  was  going 
up  the  steps  that  led  to  the  porch.  A  look  at 
the  man's  face  told  3Ir.  Templemore  that 
Jacques  had  no  news  for  him.  He  put  )io 
questions,  but  said  briefly — 

"  I  expect  a  visitor  this  evening  or  to-morrow. 
Show  him  in  at  once,  no  matter  what  the  hour 
may  be." 

He  entered  the  house,  and  said  no  more  ; 


but  Jacques  knew  very  well  what  this  meant, 
and  when  he  went  down  to  the  kitchen,  he 
commented  upon  his  master's  domestic  mis- 
fortunes to  the  cook  and  the  two  housemaids, 
whom  he  found  there.  "  Monsieur  had  just 
come  back,"  he  said,  "and  he  had  looked  at 
him,  Jacques,  so." 

And  as  the  gift,  or  at  least  the  taste  for 
acting  was  strong  upon  Jacques,  he  i-olled  his 
eyes  in  imitation  of  his  master,  and  bent  them 
on  the  cook  in  a  way  that  horrified  her. 

"  You  are  hideous,  Monsieur  Jacques,"  she 
said — "  do  not,  you  are  hideous  ! " 

"  I  am  only  showing  you  how  monsieur 
looked,"  composedly  replied  Jacques  ;  "  upon 
which  I  looked  so,"  he  added,  putting  on, 
with  considerable  success,  the  stolid,  immova- 
ble face  of  a  well-bred  servant-man. 

The  cook  looked  at  him  with  more  favor, 
and  said  he  was  quite  "  comme  il  faiit "  when 
he  looked  "  so." 

Jacques  received  the  praise  with  profound 
indifference  (cook  was  forty-five),  and  con- 
tinued his  imitation  of  his  master's  looks,  ap- 
pearance, and  language,  ending  with  the  sig- 
nificant comment :  "  And  so,  as  he  could  not 
find  madame,  he  has  sent  the  police  after  her. 
The  '  agent '  is  coming  this  evening,  and  I  am 
to  show  him  in,  no  matter  at  what  hour  of  the 
night." 

This  interesting  piece  of  information  caused 
some  excitement  in  the  minds  of  Jacques'  three 
listeners.  There  never  yet  was  a  household 
without  its  factions,  and  Mr.  Templemore's 
had  bejen  divided  ever  since  his  wife's  flight 
had  made  his  domestic  troubles  a  subject  of 
discourse  amongst  his  servants.  Jacques,  the 
cook,  and  one  of  the  housemaids,  did  not  ap- 
prove of  Dora's  elevation  ;  the  younger  house- 
maid, on  he  contrary,  admired  so  laudable  a 
precedent,  and  gave  it  her  warmest  sanction. 
On  hearing  of  the  police  agent,  she  set  up  an 
indignant  scream,  and  exclaimed  that  it  was 
"  une  horreur  !  " 


260 


DORA. 


"  Stop,  stop,  mademoiselle,  stop,"  dubiously 
said  Jacques,  who  wished  to  impress  this 
young  lady  with  the  extent  of  a  husband's 
rights — hoping  he  might  have  to  exercise 
them  oyer  her  some  day — to  curb  her  ambi- 
tion, which  he  considered  dangerous,  and  yet, 
oh  !  difficult  task,  not  to  offend  her.  "  Stop, 
I  beg.  If  monsieur  has,  as  there  is  no  doubt, 
the  right  to  get  his  wife  brought  back  by 
gendarmes,  so  has  he  the  right  to  have  her 
found  out  by  an  '  agent.'  The  only  thing  is, 
are  they  married  ?  Eich  gentlemen  do  not 
marry  governesses  every  day.  There  was  no 
wedding.  We  saw  nothing,  and  there  may 
be  nothing.  Her  aunt  wanted  to  kill  her,  her 
cousin  has  a  brain-fever,  her  mother  dies,  and 
she  runs  away.  I  say  again,  are  they  mar- 
ried '?    Who  saw  it  ? — who  knows  of  it  ?  " 

This  daring  hypothesis  silenced  them  all 
for  a  moment.     Jacques  resumed  composedly  : 

"  My  belief  is  that  poor  mademoiselle,  who 
was  a  good  young  lady  in  her  way,  promised 
her  poor  mother  to  behave  better — and  so 
she  I'an  away." 

The  young  house-maid,  who  had  recovered 
by  this,  indignantly  declared  she  did  not  be- 
lieve a  word  Jacques  had  been  saying,  and 
asked,  with  considerable  asperity,  what  right 
monsieur  had  to  send  gendarmes  and  police 
agents  after  madame  if  she  were  not  his  wife  ? 
This  logic  being  irrefutable,  was  met  by 
Jacques  with  the  masculine  reply,  "  that 
women,  though  highly  gifted,  did  not  know 
how  to  reason ; "  and  a  quarrel,  in  which 
cook  took  her  share,  followed,  aiid  led  to  a 
considerable  delay  in  the  hour  of  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  dinner. 

He  httle  thought,  as  he  was  pacing  his 
study  up  and  down  in  a  fever  of  expectation 
and  anxiety,  waiting  for  news  with  alterna- 
tives of  hope  and  fear,  that  he  was  acting  his 
Fad  part  just  then  to  entertain,  interest,  and 
excite  his  own  servants.  They  are  the  first 
spectators  of  that  drama  in  which,  at  some 


time  or  other  of  existence,  we  all  appear,  for 
the  benefit  of  our  contemporaries.  Whether 
they  stand  behind  a  chair  in  a  black  coat,  or 
move  about  a  villa  in  white  cap  and  apron, 
they  have  the  best  places  in  all  that  wide 
audience  which  looks  on  so  coolly  whilst  we 
strive  and  suffer.  Oh !  for  the  privilege  of 
silence  and  solitude  in  these  sad  hours  of 
life  ;  for  the  right  of  hiding  our  agony,  as  the 
wild  beast  hides  its  death,  in  some  dark  hole 
or  other  !  But  from  the  days  of  the  Roman 
emperor  downward,  life  and  death  are  trans- 
acted on  the  system  of  fame  or  approbation. 
"  Farewell,  and  clap  your  hands  !  "  says  a  dy- 
ing Ctesar,  when  his  part  is  out ;  and  the  very 
wretch  on  the  scaffold  dies  not  for  himself 
alone.  He  dies  for  the  crowd,  for  the  report- 
ers, for  the  newspapers,  for  that  world  which 
will  coolly  read  of,  or  which  beholds  his  last 
pangs  with  a  callous  and  a  curious  eye.  And 
he  knows  it  and  does  his  best.  The  evil  is 
beyond  remedy,  and  we  generally  put  a  good 
face  upon  it.  Ignorance,  besides,  helps  us  to 
endurance.  We  rarely  know  the  precise 
spot  or  hour  when  privacy  ceases  and  publici- 
ty begins.  Human  pity  allows  us  a  few  illu- 
sions, and  we  may  hug  ourselves  on  the  hid- 
ing of  a  pam  which  is  world-known  all  the 
time.  Mr.  Templemorc  knew  in  a  geneial 
way  that  his  servants  must  be  very  busy  with 
his  concerns  just  then,  but  he  little  knew  how 
far  their  comments  extended.  It  surely  would 
have  added  a  new  sting  to  his  lot  if  he  could 
have  heard  the  construction  Jacques  put  on 
his  young  wife's  flight.  And  yet  some  of 
these  comments  showed  Jacques  to  be  gifted 
with  the  acuteness  of  his  class.  On  the  after- 
noon of  the  next  day  a  handsome  florid  man 
was  shown  into  Mr.  Templemore's  study.  He 
stayed  five  minutes,  no  more,  yet  so  potent 
was  his  visit  in  its  effects,  that  half  an  hour 
after  his  departure  Mr.  Templemorc  was  sit- 
ting in  a  railway-carriage,  going  on  to  Paris 
at  express  speed.     In  his  right  hand  he  held 


SOME   IlsTORMATION   OF   MRS.  TEMPLElfORE. 


261 


a  scrap  of  paper,  which  he  read  again  and 
again.     It  ran  thus  :  *• 

"  On  the  third  of  Jul)'  a  lady  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, with  her  veil  closely  drawn  over  her  flicc, 
entered  the  Rouen  station,  and  took  one  first- 
class  ticket  for  Paris.  The  lady  who  delivers 
the  tickets  could  not  see  her  well,  but  feels 
sure  that  she  was  young.  She  also  noticed 
this  strange  lady's  right  hand ;  it  was  un- 
gloved, small,  and  remarkably  pretty.  She 
likewise  remembers  that  the  lady  wore  a 
peculiar  ring — a  small  gold  serpent,  with  an 
emerald  head." 

That  ring  Mr.  Templemore  remembered 
well.  True,  it  might  have  been  lost  or  stolen, 
and  its  testimony  could  not  be  trusted  abso- 
lutely, but  the  pretty  hand  he  had  eo  often 
admired,  and  which  none  could  see  and  forget 
again,  convinced  him  that  this  was  Dora. 
This  much  he  therefore  knew,  but  he  knew 
no  more.  What  had  happened  during  that 
week  which  had  elapsed  from  the  day  on 
which  Dora  left  Les  Roches  to  the  third  of 
July  ?  Where  was  Mrs.  Courtenay  ?  Was 
she  living,  or  dead,  as  Fanny  had  said  ? 
Where  was  even  Fanny?  And  what  took 
Dora  to  Paris  ?  These  were  questions  which 
the  florid  gentleman  had  candidly  declared 
himself  unable  to  answer.  With  the  clew  in 
his  hands — a  frail  one — Mr.  Templemore  was 
to  find  bis  wife  in  the  great  human  ocean 
toward  which  he  was  speeding. 


.CHAPTER  XLIX. 

The  hot  sunset  was  filling  the  busy  streets 
of  Paris  with  a  fiery  glow,  which  shot  up  to 
their  highest  balconies,  and  turned  the  trees 
in  the  Tuileries  into  bronze  and  gold,  when 
Mr.  Templemore  entered  once  more  the  Hotel 
Rue  de  Rivoli,  which  he  had  left  three  evenings 
before.  No  other  occupant  had  claimed  his 
rooms,  and  he  returned  to  them  as  a  matter 


of  course.  He  found  on  the  table  a  torn 
newspaper  he  had  left  there,  and  in  a  drawer 
some  cigars  which  he  had  forgotten.  The 
arm-chair  was  as  he  had  placed  it,  near  the 
window,  and  when  he  sat  down  in  it,  his  eyes 
beheld  the  same  bright  scene  they  had  gazed 
on  an  hour  before  he  went  out  on  the  Boule- 
vards. The  children  and  nursery-maids  troop- 
ing out  of  the  Imperial  Gardens,  the  tight  little 
sentinel  looking  at  them  as  they  passed,  the 
roll  of  carriages  below,  the  loungers,  all 
seemed  as  much  the  same,  as  unchanged  as 
the  glittering  front  of  the  palace  itself,  and 
the  rich  masses  of  trees,  with  a  white  statue 
gleaming  through  their  sombre  depths,  or  the 
glimmer  of  a  fountain  shining  far  away. 
Nothing  was  altered  save  his  own  mood.  He 
had  beheld  these  things  with  a  cold,  dreary 
gaze,  the  gaze  of  a  man  whom  love  and  life 
have  wronged,  and  who  cannot  forgive  his 
wrongers.  He  looked  at  them  now  with  the 
feverish  impatience  of  one  who  has  wrought 
his  own  undoing,  who  has  cast  the  rare  pearl 
of  happiness  away,  and  who  knows  not  whether 
this  world's  deep  and  troubled  sea  will  ever 
yield  it  back  again. 

What  if  days,  weeks,  months,  nay,  years 
should  pass,  and  he  should  not  find  Dora ! 
It  was  possible.  Cruel  and  torturing  was 
the  thought.  It  seemed  to  pierce  his  flesh 
like  a  sharp  arrow,  and  make  it  quiver  with 
the  pa'in.  And  he  was  powerless.  He  might 
employ  such  agents  as  he  had  already  used, 
but  by  his  own  efforts  he  could  not  hope  to 
succeed.  Regret  and  bafiQed  hope  were  his 
companions  now,  and  with  their  sad  society 
he  must  be  content.  Day  after  day  memory 
would  haunt  him  with  a  fair  face,  and  bright 
hair,  and  the  soft  look  of  deep,  gray  eyes; 
and  in  the  meanwhile  time  would  wither,  and 
death  might  destroy  them — and  what  could 
he  do?  The  thought  had  something  so  cruel 
and  tantalizing  in  it,  that,  unable  to  bear  it, 
Mr.  Templemore  took  his  hat  and  went  out. 


262 


DORA. 


He  knew  it  was  too  late,  that  his  erraud 
was  a  useless  one,  yet  he  entered  the  gardens, 
passed  through  them,  went  up  the  quays,  then 
crossed  one  of  the  bridges,  and  soon  found 
himself  at  the  dull  building  where  the  Parisian 
police  sits  in  state.  But  as  Mr.  Templemore 
had  expected,  the  high  oflScial  whom  he  want- 
ed to  see  was  gone,  all  the  oflBees,  indeed,  were 
closed,  and  the  concierge  informed  "  mon- 
sieur that  he  had  best  return  the  next  morn- 
ing at  ten." 

Twilight  was  filling  the  streets  as  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore turned  away;  a  few  pale  stars  shone 
in  the  summer  sky,  a  faint  breath  of  fresh- 
ness came  on  the  air;  windows  which  had 
been  closed  during  the  heat  of  the  day  now 
opened,  and  laughing  girls  and  women  looked 
out.  But  to  Mr.  Templemore  all  was  vexa- 
tion, all  was  weariness  of  spirit.  The  noble 
river  flowing  through  its  quays,  the  distant 
towers  of  Xotre  Dame  rising  dark  in  the  hazy 
air,  the  palaces  and  gardens  and  lines  of  trees 
fading  away  in  the  soft  heights  behind  which 
lay  Saint-Cloud,  the  vast,  murmimng  city  be- 
low, the  calm  and  silent  heavens  above,  were 
nothing  to  him  now.  A  thought  was  on  him, 
consuming  as  a  quenchless  thirst.  That  pas- 
sion which  had  risen  so  suddenly  in  his  heart, 
which  he  had  thrust  away  from  him  with  cruel 
and  remorseless  power,  now  came  back  to 
him  as  the  chastisement  of  his  double  faith- 
lessness. He  had  loved  two  women,  and  he 
had  been  quite  true  to  neither.  He  had  for- 
gotten his  betrothed  in  his  wife,  and  he  had 
visited  on  his  wife  the  sin  of  that  forgetful- 
ness.  Yes,  he  knew  it  well  enough  now. 
Shame  at  his  own  weakness  had  helped  to 
make  him  so  prompt  to  judge  and  condemn. 
He  knew  it,  and  what  availed  the  knowl- 
edge?—what  good  came  of  it  through  that 
dreary  evening  and  long,  sleepless  night ':" 

By  ten  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Templemore 
had  seen  the  high  official  whose  assistance  he 
needed,  and  before  noon  he  had  received  infor- 


mation to  the  effect  that,  on  the  night  of  the 
third  of  July,  a  lady,  who  gave  the  name  of 
Templemore,  had  slept  at  the  Hotel  du  Pare, 
Rue  de  la  Tigne,  which  she  had  left  the  next 
morning.  It  was  useless  to  go  and  seek  her 
there,  yet  Mr.  Templemore  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  trj-ing  to  find  something  beyond 
this  meagre  intelligence. 

The  Rue  de  la  Vigne  was  a  grave,  lonely 
street,  not  far  from  the  Havre  railway-station. 
It  had  few  shops,  but  many  private  houses, 
some  of  which  were  mansions,  through  whose 
open  gates  you  caught  glimpses  of  dull  court- 
yards or  green  gardens.  The  Hotel  du  Pare 
was  a  sober-looking  house.  No  audacious 
dancing  pagan  nymph  adorned  its  quiet  court, 
but  a  modest,  decorous  muse  stood  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  grass-plot,  which,  by  its  green  tone, 
added  to  the  cool,  shady  look  of  the  place.  A 
sedate,  steady-looking  waiter  of  fifty  stood  at 
the  gate  in  a  contemplative  attitude — the  house 
was  evidently  both  dull  and  respectable. 

"  Madame  Templemore,"  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more. 

The  waiter  shook  his  head.  They  had  no 
such  lady.  But  she  had  lived  there  ?  The 
waiter  thought  not,  but  was  not  obstinate,  and 
referred  monsieur  to  the  bureau.  "There," 
he  said,  stifling  a  yawn,  "  monsieur  would  get 
every  information." 

The  bureau  was  a  little  dark  office  on  the 
ground  floor,  where  a  decent-looking  woman 
sat  reading  a  newspaper.  On  hearing  Mr. 
Templemore's  request,  she  went  to  an  old  ink- 
stained  desk,  opened  a  dingy  manuscript  vol- 
ume, a  Babel  of  names,  and  whilst  she  slowly 
searched  through  its  pages,  Mr.  Templemore 
looked  over  her  shoulder.  Suddenly  a  fine, 
delicate  handwriting,  which  he  knew  well, 
flashed  before  his  eyes ;  there  it  was,  clear  and 
plain — "  Madame  Templemore,  from  Rouen." 

"Ah!  number  twenty-one.  The  lady  is 
gone,  sir — she  came  on  the  third,  and  left  the 
next  morning." 


KEMARKAELE  DISAPPEAKANCE. 


263 


"And  can  you  give  me  no  clew  to  her  pres- 
ent abode,  madame  ?  " 

Madame  feared  not,  but  obligingly  called  the 
waiter.  From  him,  however,  nothing  could 
be  extracted.  "  Gone,  sir,"  he  mildly  said ; 
"that  is  all  we  know." 

In  vain  Mr.  Templemore  questioned.  What 
the  lady  was  like,  if  she  had  any  luggage,  how 
she  left  the  hotel,  at  what  hour,  on  foot  or  in 
a  carriage,  were  matters  on  which  the  waiter 
professed  profound  ignorance.  He  fancied, 
indeed,  that  the  lady  had  no  luggage,  and  that 
she  must  have  walked  out  of  the  hotel  after 
paying  her  bill,  but  he  would  not  pledge  him- 
self to  it.  They  were  full  about  that  time,  and 
the  matter  had  escaped  his  memory.  The  con- 
cierge^ the  chambermaid,  when  questioned, 
were  as  ignorant.  They  too  remembered  a 
lady  in  mourning,  with  her  veil  down,  but  they 
remembered  no  more.  Mr.  Templemore  tor- 
uaented  them  all  for  an  hour,  and  could  get 
nothing  else  out  of  them.  At  length  the  waiter 
lost  patience,  and  hinted  that  "  monsieur  had 
better  apply  to  the  police,"  and,  sick  at  heart, 
Mr.  Templemore  turned  away  from  that  house 
which  had  sheltered  his  wife  for  one  night,  and 
kept  no  trace  of  her  presence  save  that  written 
token.  One  thing,  however,  was  beyond  doubt, 
Dora  had  come  to  Paris  alone.  "  Her  mother 
is  dead,"  he  thought. 

He  went  back  at  once  to  the  high  oflScial 
whom  he  had  seen  that  morning ;  and  again, 
on  sending  in  his  card,  he  was  admitted  to  the 
presence  of  a  gentleman  whose  cheerful,  good- 
humored  countenance  gave  not  the  faintest 
index  to  the  nature  of  his  professional  duties. 
Surely  those  mild  blue  eyes  might  linger  lazily 
over  the  daily  papers,  "Figaro"  in  especial, 
and  take  in  accounts  of  theatres,  dancers'  quar- 
rels, and  the  rest ;  but  they  had  never  gazed 
down  the  depths  of  socig,!  vice  and  crime.  Such 
was  the  impression  Mr.  Templemore  had  re- 
ceived in  the  morning,  and  so  strong  was  it 
still,  that  he  reluctantly  entered  anew  on  the 


prosecution  of  the  matter  that  had  brought 
him. 

"  I  acted  on  the  information  you  kindly  sent 
me,"  he  said,  sitting  down  with  a  wearied  sigh ; 
"  it  certainly  was  my  wife  who  slept  on  the 
third  of  July  at  the  Hotel  du  Pare ;  but  she 
spent  only  one  night  there,  and  I  can  ascertain 
no  more." 

"  Well,  we  know  no  more,"  said  the  high 
official,  smiling;  "we  told  you  so." 

"  Yes ;  but  surely  you  will  be  able  to  learn 
more  than  this  ?  "  urged  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Oh !  of  course — with  time." 

The  qualification  was  thrown  in  carelessly, 
as  it  were ;  but  it  made  Mr.  Templemore  bend 
his  keenest  look  on  the  man  before  him. 

"  I  have  great  confidence  in  the  Parisian 
police,"  he  said,  watching  the  high  official, 
who  leaned  back  in  his  arm-chair,  and  nodded 
every  now  and  then  a  sort  of  assent  to  Mr. 
Templemore's  words.  "Their  subtlety  is  un- 
rivalled— nothing  can  equal  their  keenness 
when  on  the  scent,  save  their  dogged  perti- 
nacity in  pursuit." 

"Very  handsome  and  complimentary,"  said 

the  high  official,  smiling  again,  "  and  yet  very 

true.      Our  men  are  first-rate,   and  not  all 

French,"  be  added.     "  We  are  cosmopolitan, 

sir." 

o 
"And  I  feel  no  doubt  of  success  in  the 

present  case,"  continued  Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Nor  do  I ;  but  I  anticipate  delay.  I  sus- 
pect we  shall  be  stopped  by  the  carriage  as 
usual." 

"  By  the  carriage  ! " 

"  Ye.=,  in  all  cases  of  mysterious  disappear- 
ance, there  is  invariably  a  carriage.  You  see, 
since  ^«(?res  got  their  liberty,  we  have  lost  our 
right  hand,  I  may  say.  To  be  sure,  they  are, 
or  ought  to  be,  numbered ;  but  the  night 
vehicles  often  evade  the  law.  How  did  we 
know  that  the  lady  went  straight  from  the 
Havre  station  to  the  Hotel  du  Pare  ?  By  the 
cabman !     But,  unluckily,  no  cabman  can  be 


264 


DORA. 


found  to  say  that  he  took  her  away  on  the 
next  morning.  Yet  it  is  very  certain  that  she 
only  spent  one  night  there." 

"  Perhaps  she  took  a  porter,"  suggested  Mr. 
Templemore,  "  and  went  on  foot  ?  " 

"  No  porter  in  the  neighborhood  knows  any- 
thing about  her,"  replied  the  high  official,  who 
seemed  perfectly  conversant  with  every  par- 
ticular of  the  case.  "We  shall  have  hard 
■work,  sir — hard  work.  It  is  not  easy  to  find 
people  who  are  either  unwilling  or  unable  to 
help  us." 

"  Unable  ! "  said  Mr.  Templemore ;  "  in  what 
sense,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  We  have  now  several  cases  of  mysterious 
disappearance  on  hand,"  evasively  rei^lied  the 
high  official,  "  and  they  are  all  utterly  inex- 
plicable. Take  this,  for  instance,  which  I 
shall  call  number  one.  A  foreign  nobleman 
of  high  rank,  free  from  debt  or  embarrassment 
of  any  kind,  so  far  as  our  knowledge  extends, 
leaves  his  hotel  one  fine  summer  morning,  and 
returns  no  more.  He  goes  out  on  foot,  but  is 
seen  driving  in  a  common  ^acre  an  hour  later. 
This,  and  no  more,  is  all  the  knowledge  we 
have  of  his  movements.  His  servants  can  give 
no  clew,  his  relatives  know  nothing ;  and  yester- 
day his  landlord  sold  his  carriages,  his  horses, 
and  his  furniture,  to  cover  the  rent,  which 
happens  to  be  high.  Where  is  that  yoimg 
man  ?  Is  he  hiding,  and  if  so,  for  what  rea- 
son? Is  he  dead,  and  how  came  he  by  his 
death?  These,  sir,  are  matters  on  which  the 
keenest  search  has  given  us  no  sort  of  infor- 
mation." 

Mr.  Templemore  looked  impatient. 

"  A  young  man's  freak,"  he  said. 

"  Very  likely ;  but  number  two  has  another 
complexion.  An  Indian  merchant  sends  his 
wife,  his  sister,  and  his  two  children  to  Paris. 
The  wife  is  young — not  beautiful — pious  and 
charitable — a  fond  wife  and  a  fonder  mother. 
Her  life  is  spent  in  the  greatest  retirement. 
She  seldom  goes  out  alone.     "\\''ell,  sir,  on  an 


unlucky  day,  when  the  sister-in-law  is  out,  the 
young  wife  goes  out  too — on  business,  she 
tells  her  maid — and  she  never  comes  back. 
Weeks  and  months  are  devoted  to  the  closest 
search,  and  we  cannot  find  one  trace  of  her — 
not  one.  Did  she  go  out  on  some  charitable 
errand,  and  fiill  into  some  dreadful  trap,  or 
was  she  a  false  wife?  Heaven  knows,  sir ;  we 
do  not — but  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  she  sent 
for  a  carriage — a  common  Jicccre — and  that  we 
can  find  no  trace  of  the  same." 

Drops  of  perspiration  were  standing  on  Mr. 
Templemore's  forehead. 

"  You  spoke  of  a  trap,  sir — allow  me  to  sug- 
gest that  you  thus  pay  a  poor  compliment  to 
the  Parisian  police.  Surely  all  evil-doers  are 
under  its  special  control  and  notice." 

The  high  official  smiled. 

"  I  doubt,  sir,  if  you  imagine  how  far  that 
notice  and  control  extend.  What  will  you 
think,  sir,  when  I  tell  you  that  we  have  not 
merely  the  most  accurate  description  of  our 
black  sheep  over  all  France,  but  that,  thanks 
to  Caselli's  telegraphic  apparatus,  their  por- 
traits and  their  autographs,  sir,. can  be  sent  in 
a  few  moments  to  no  matter  what  remote  or 
obscure  station." 

"  Then  what  trap  can  be  feared  ?  "  impa- 
tiently asked  Mr.  Templemore. 

"We  find  some  cases  inexplicable  on  any 
other  hypothesis.  Take  number  three,  the 
last  case  with  which  I  shall  trouble  you.  A 
gentleman  of  middle  age,  of  retired  habits  and 
literary  tastes,  holding  a  responsible  though 
not  lucrative  position,  suddenly  declares  that 
he  must  take  a  short  journey  on  some  private 
business.  He  takes  little  or  no  luggage  with 
him  ;  he  is  known  to  have  but  a  small  sum  of 
money  in  his  possession  ;  he  even  leaves  or 
forgets  a  hundred  francs  on  the  table  in  his 
room,  and  still,  declaring  that  he  ?hall  not  be 
more  than  twenty-four  hours  away,  he  enters 
a  cab,  W'hich  he  had  himself  secured  on  his 
way  home  from  his  office  to  his  private  resi- 


LEGEND  "NUMBER  FOUR." 


265 


dence.  The  cabman  no  doubt  knew  whither 
to  drive,  for  though  the  concierge  stood  at  the 
door  to  listen,  the  man  received  no  direction 
within  her  hearing.  From  that  day  to  this  we 
have  not  been  able  to  get  the  least  knowledge 
of  number  three.  And  do  you  know  who 
number  three  was,  sir  ? "  asked  the  high 
ofiScial,  rising,  and  laying  his  hand  on  Mr. 
Teraplemore's  arm  ;  "  he  was  one  of  the  chief 
men  in  our  telegraphic  oflSce — the  very  man, 
sir,  at  whose  suggestion  the  Caselli  apparatus 
was  first  adapted  to  the  detection  of  criminals." 

If  the  high  official  had  told  Mr.  Templcmore 
all  this  to  damp  Mr.  Templemore's  ardor,  and 
prepare  him  for  ultimate  defeat,  he  succeeded. 
Mr.  Templemore  looked  turned  to  stone,  and 
unable  to  speak.  A  trap ! — for  to  that  fearful 
suggestion  his  mind  reverted — a  trap  in  which 
his  young  wife  might  have  fallen ! — a  trap  so 
deep  down  in  the  dark  nether  world  of  crime, 
that,  living  or  dead,  it  would  never  restore  her 
to  light !  Was  anything  so  sickening,  so 
fi-ightful,  possible?  He  could  not  believe  it, 
and  with  a  strong  effort  he  shook  off  the 
loathsome  thought,  and  said,  firmly  : 

'•Excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you  that  in  this 
great — this  civilized  city,  perfect  concealment 
of  crime  is  next  to  impossible." 

"Foi-ever,  very  true;  but  for  a  time  justice 
can  be  baffled.  In  the  three  cases  I  have 
mentioned  we  have  found  no  corpses.  The 
Morgue  has  told  us  nothing,  the  river  has 
yielded  back  no  victim,  the  lime-kilns  and 
stone-quarries,  which  abound  round  Paris,  as 
you  may  know,  have  been  searched  in  vain, 
the  vast  sewers  in  this  city  have  not  screened 
the  dead — in  short,  we  are  compelled  to  con- 
clude that  these  missing  persons  have  fled, 
and  are  hiding  willingly,  or  that  they  have 
been  foully  dealt  with,  and  buried  in  some 
hidden  spot.  That  they  may  have  been  con- 
veyed away  forcibly  is  just  possible,  but 
wholly  improbable." 

"May  I  ask  which  you  consider  the  more 


likely  hypothesis  of  the  two  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Templemore,  as  calmly  as  he  could. 

"  I  consider  the  chances  equal.  Crime  is 
but  too  frequent,  as  we  all  know  ;  and  we  all 
know,  too,  that  seemingly  unruffled  lives  often 
hide  something  which  may  make  flight  need- 
ful. The  motive  is  not  always  apparent,  but 
it  exists,  for  all  that.  However,  in  this  case 
we  will  for  the  present  take  a  third  hypothesis 
— that  of  ill-luck.  A  letter  may  have  been 
written  which  you  did  not  receive ;  some  de- 
signing or  foolish  person  may  have  broken 
the  chain  of  evidence,  and  wantonly  given  us 
all  this  work,  but  it  does  not  follow  that  we 
may  not  find  the  missing  link  again.  ^Ye  may 
find  it  to-day,  or,  maybe,  in  three  weeks.  Our 
agents  are  keen,  cool,  and  steady,  and  we 
spend  five  millions  a  year." 

He  ceased,  and  Mr.  Templemoi'e,  after  a 
brief  pause,  which  showed  him  that  he  had  no 
more  to  learn,  rose  slowly  and  took  his  leave. 
But  unreality  was  around  him,  and  walked  in 
his  steps.  The  streets,  the  houses  in  them, 
the  men  and  women  whom  he  met,  were  all 
shadowy  and  dim.  He  had  but  one  thought, 
and  that  was  torture ;  but  little  by  little  the 
morbid  and  unnatural  fear  vanished.  No,  Dora 
had  neither  been  kidnapped  nor  ensnared. ' 
She  had  fled  from  him  in  resentment,  and  it 
might  be  hard  to  find  her  again  ;  but  find  her 
he  must.  He  was  sure  of  it — even  as  sure  as 
that  he  could  charm  away  her  wrath. 

By  the  time  Mr.'  Templemore  reached  his 
hotel,  he  was  as  sanguine  and  as  hopeful  as 
ever.  The  event  seemed  to  justify  his  antici- 
pations. That  very  evening  he  received  news 
from  the  police  which  made  him  flush  up  with 
joy.  He  seized  his  hat,  went  down-stairs,  and 
left  the  hotel  without  saying  a  word  to  any 
one. 

And  now  the  high  official  had  an  excellent 
opportunity,  if  he  chose  to  avail  himself  of  it, 
to  add  number  four  to  the  list  of  his  mys- 
terious    disappearances.       Mr.     Templemore 


266 


DORA. 


did  not  return  that  night,  nor  the  next  morn- 
ing, nor  for  days  that  lengthened  into  weeks. 
He  had  left  his  trunk,  his  carpet-bag,  his 
books,  and  even  some  money  behind  hiM,  so 
great  had  been  his  haste,  and  still  he  neither 
returned,  nor  wrote,  nor  gave  any  clew  to  his 
whereabouts. 

The  master  of  the  hotel  was  at  first  satisfied 
with  scoring  down  the  absent  lodger's  rooms 
to  his  account  ;  but  when  a  whole  fortnight 
had  passed  by  he  cleared  the  apartments  of 
Mr.  Teinplemore's  property,  let  them  to  other 
guests,  and  went  and  laid  the  v/hole  matter 
before  the  police. 

The  police  knew  he  was  not  in  Paris,  but 
they  knew  no  more  ;  the  story  spread  and 
created  a  sensation,  then  it  became  a  legend 
of  the  hotel,  and  still  Mr.  Templemore  did  not 
return. 


CHAPTER  L. 

As  there  can  be  nothing  in  this  world  which 
does  not  belong  to  some  one,  so  the  legend  of 
Mr.  Templemore's  disappearance  was  early 
appropriated  and  pertinaciously  retained  by 
the  concierge  in  his  late  hotel.  He  had  but 
■  one  way  of  delivering  it,  but  that  was  effec- 
tive. Whenever  a  new-comer  entei'ed  his 
comfoi'table  room,  and  made  inquiries  concern- 
ing apartments  to  be  had,  the  concierge  would 
ejaculate  thoughtfully  :  "  Why,  yes,  there  is 
number  seven,  the  apartment  of  the  poor 
gentleman  who  vanished  so  mysteriously  ;  but 
did  you  say  one  room,  sir  ?  Then  number 
seven  will  not  do ;  better  have  number 
fifteen." 

Paris  was  very  bu.sy  just  then  with  mysteri- 
ous disappearances.  Number  three  had  been 
found  drowned  in  England,  but  how  he  had 
come  by  that  fatal  end  no  one  could  say.  It 
might  be  a  suicide — it  might  bo  worse.  A 
mystery  it  wa.'f,  and  would  probably  remain  till 
,the  great  Judgment-Day — the  revealer  of  all 


secrets.  Now,  the  owner  of  Mr.  Templemore's 
legend  cherished  the  secret  hope  that  it  would 
have  some  such  tragic  ending.  Thus — part 
the  first  ;  a  mystery.  Part  the  second  :  clear- 
ing of  the  mystery  by  a  second  mystery,  never 
to  be  cleared  on  any  account. 

But  it  was  not  to  be.  A  traveller  came  one 
afternoon,  a  skeptical  traveller,  a  Thomas  of 
Didynius,  who  sharply  interrupted  the"  legend, 
and  denied  it  peremptorily,  and  asked  "  what 
ridiculous  story  this  was  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  ! "  indignantly  exclaimed  the 
concierge;  but  he  said  no  more.  He  stared 
with  open  mouth  and  eyes  at  the  stianger,  in 
whom  he  recognized  Mr.  Templemore  himself. 
He  was  much  worn,  and  looked  haggard,  but 
his  identity  could  not  be  disputed,  and  thus 
ended  number  four  and  the  legend. 

Trouble  and  Mr.  Templemore  had  been 
closely  acquainted  since  we  saw  him  last. 
Acting  on  information  from  the  police,  which 
convinced  him  that  he  had  at  length  found  his 
wife,  Mr.  Templemore  had  gone  to  a  boarding- 
house  in  Passy,  and  asked  to  see  Mrs,  Poster, 
exactly  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  that  lady 
had  gone  to  England.  He  followed  her  at  once, 
but  reached  the  station  ten  minutes  after  the 
departure  of  the  train.  He  took  an  express 
train,  but  the  same  ill-luck  pursued  him.  There 
was  an  accident,  the  train  was  delayed  two 
hours ;  and  when  Mr.  Templemore  I'eached 
Boulogne,  he  could  see  from  the  pier  the  smoke 
of  a  steamer  fading  away  on  the  horizon.  Mrs. 
Foster,  he  learned  without  a  doubt,  was  on 
board. 

This  was  but  the  first  step  in  a  keen  pursuit^ 
which  ended  in  blank  disappointment.  For 
several  weeks  Mr.  Templemore  was  on  the  un- 
known Mrs.  Foster's  track  ;  then  she  suddenly 
vanished,  and  was  found  no  more.  Was  she 
really  Dora  ?  He  did  not  even  know  that ;  he 
knew  nothing,  he  could  learn  nothing.  If  the 
grave  had  received  his  wife,  she  could  scarcely 
have  vanished  more  completely  than  this  from 


MONSIEUR  DTJRAND. 


2G7 


all  knowledge  of  the  living.  No  one  had  seen, 
no  one  seemed  ever  to  have  known  her.  It 
was  as  if  the  being  who  was  so  dear  to  him 
had  lived  for  himself  alone,  for  Mr.  Tcmplc- 
more  could  find  no  token  of  her  vacant  place. 
To  have  vanished  was  for  Dora  to  have  been 
forgotten. 

Wearied  and  disheartened,  Mr.  Tcmplemore 
returned  to  Paris,  and,  even  before  going  to  his 
hotelj.called  again  upon  the  high  official;  but 
that  gentleman  was  out  of  town,  and  in  his 
stead  Mr.  Templemore  found  a  nervous  little 
man,  who  knew  nothing,  who  would  say  notli- 
ing,  and  who  was  evidently  most  anxious  to  get 
rid  of  his  visitor. 

He  "would  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of 
Durand ;  Durand  was  sure  to  know  every- 
thing about  it ;  Burand  would  call  upon  Mr. 
Templemore,  and  save  him  the  trouble  of 
coming  again.  Yes,  Durand  would  be  sure 
to  call  and  tell  him,  even  if  there  was  nothing 
to  tell.  It  was  useless  to  insist,  and  though 
burning  with  secret  indignation  and  impa- 
tience, Mr.  Templemore  had  to  submit  and  take 
his  leave. 

For  two  days  he  waited.  But  no  monsieur 
Durand  appeared.  No  letter,  no  message 
even,  came  to  set  at  rest  the  fever  in  which  he 
lived.  On  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  Mr. 
Templemore,  who  bad  not  left  his  room,  went 
out,  but  he  could  not  stay  away  more  than 
a  few  minutes.  He  turned  back  as  eager  as 
if  he  had  been  away  on  a  long  journey,  and 
expected  news  on  his  return.  He  entered  the 
lodge  of  the  concierge,  and  looking  at  him 
searchingly,  he  said — 

"  No  letter  ?  " 

"  None  for  monsieur." 

"  And  no  message  ?  " 

"  None  of  any  kind  ;  monsieur,"  added  the 
concierge,  looking  injui-ed,  "has  been  gone 
three  minutes." 

"  I  did  not  ask  you  how  long  I  had  been 
gone,"  replied  Mr.  Templemore,  with  a  sort  of 


fierceness — so  the  concierge  called  it — in  liis 
looks,  which  greatly  affronted  that  dignitary. 
Unconscious,  perhaps,  of  the  asperity  of  his 
reply,  Mr.  Templemore  went  back  to  his 
apartment. 

"I  must  renew  the  search  on  my  own  ac- 
count," he  thought,  as  he  paced  his  room  up 
and  down,  "  even  though  I  fail  again,  and 
allow  myself  to  be  led  away  by  a  mere  ignis 
fatuus  ;  the  search  itself  will  relieve  me,  and 
this  waiting,  this  suspense,  is  maddening." 

He  had  scarcely  come  to  this  conclusion 
when  he  heard  a  low  tap  at  his  door. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  beating 
of  the  heart,  that  came  from  neither  hope  nor 
fear,  but  partook  of  both. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  low,  thin  man,  with 
a  bimdle  under  his  arm,  entered  the  room. 

"  Are  you  Monsieur  Durand  ?  " 

"  I  am,  sir." 

"  Have  you  found  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  exactly  found  the  lady,  sir,  but 
I  bring  some  information  about  the  lady." 

Mr.  Templemore's  face  fell.  He  wanted 
Dora.  If  they  had  her  not,  he  cared  little 
about  their  information. 

Monsieur  Durand  resumed,  composedly : 
•   "  Something  was  astray,  too,  and  so  I  could 
not  come  at  once." 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?  What  do  you 
come  to  tell  me  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  spoke  hastily.  This  Mon- 
sieur Durand  was  hateful  to  him.  He  was  a 
pale,  thin  man,  with  restless  eyes,  and  as  Mr. 
Templemoi'e  met  their  look,  he  could,  not  help 
thinking  that  if,  instead  of  seeking  out  the 
fugitive  to  bring  her  back  to  the  fondness  of 
a  repentant  husband,  their  task  had  been  to 
hunt  her  down  to  shame  or  death,  they  would 
have  done  it  without  shrinking  and  remorse. 

Whether  Monsieur  Durand  guessed  or  not 
the  feeling  with  which  he  was  regarded  by 
Mr.  Templemore,  he  preserved  his  composure, 
and  replied  very  calmly  : 


268 


DORA. 


"  An  English  lady  in  mourning,  young  and 
pretty,  lived  in  a  furnished  room,  let  by  the 
owner  of  a  hric-d-hrac  shop,  Rue  de  la  Serpe. 
She  was  Madame  Smith." 

He  looked  at  Mr.  Templemore. 

"Well,"  he  said,  impatiently,  "Madame 
Smith  has  left  the  place,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  she  has  left  it.  And  after  she 
left,  a  young  Englishman  came  and  inquired 
after  her — a  good  deal ;  I  suppose  it  was  not 
monsieur  ?  " 

The  blood  rushed  up  into  Mr.  Templemore's 
face. 

"  A  gentleman  !  what  gentleman  ? "  he 
asked  sharply,  for  he  thought  of  John  Luan. 

But  Monsieur  Durand's  knowledge  did  not 
extend  thus  far.  He  shook  his  head  —  he 
could  not  tell. 

"  Well,  and  what  about  Madame  Smith  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Templemore,  after  a  brief  pause, 
"  for  I  suppose  you  have  something  to  tell 
me." 

"  I  have,  sir,"  and  Monsieur  Durand  began 
untying  the  bundle.  He  drew  forth  a  woman's 
dress,  black,  but  dreadfully  rumpled,  and  he 
inquired  "  if  monsieur  knew  that  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  know  it,"  replied 
Mr.  Templemore ;  "  that  mourning — if  it  be- 
longs to  my  wife — was  purchased  whilst  I  was 
away." 

"  And  linen — would  monsieur  know  linen  ?  " 

Mr.  Templemore  saw  Monsieur  Durand's 
hands  fumble  at  something  white. 

"  The  mark  will  tell  us,"  he  said,  eagerly  ap- 
proaching. 

"  Ah  !  there  is  none,  unluckilj^,"  remarked 
Monsieur  Durand ;  "  look  ! "  and  he  showed 
liim  that  the  mark  had  l)een  cut  out. 

"  Then  how  can  I  tell '? "  impatiently  asked 
Mr.  Templemore.  "  What  are  these  things  ? — 
how  did  you  get  them  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  monsieur  directly  how  they  came 
into  the  hands  of  the  police;  but  I  may  re- 
mark, first,  that  the  linen  is  fine,  and  that  the 


dress,  though  spoiled,  is  almost  new,  and  was 
expensive.  And  now  I  will  tell  monsieur  all 
about  theai.  That  Madame  Smith  to  whom 
they  belonged  took  the  room  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Serpe  several  weeks  ago.  She  was  in  mourn- 
ing ;  she  spoke  little  and  cried  often.  A  week 
after  taking  her  room  she  left  it  one  evening, 
and  never  came  back.  Her  trunk  was  empty, 
but  her  rent  had  been  paid  in  advance,  so  her 
landlady  had  nothing  to  say.  On  that  same 
evening,  however — that  is  to  say,  the  fifteenth 
of  July,  when  there  was  a  great  storm — a 
woman  in  mourning  climbed  up  on  the  ledge 
of  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde,  and  leaped  into 
the  Seine.  Three  days  later  her  body  was 
found  and  taken  to  the  Morgue,  where  it  was 
identified  by  her  landlady ;  and  these,"  calmly 
continued  Monsieur  Durand,  "  are  the  clothes 
she  wore." 

On  the  evening  of  the  fifteenth  of  July  ! — 
that  is  to  say  on  the  evening  when  he  was  at 
the  play,  when  he  paid  for  the  diamond  cross, 
when  he  travelled  homo  through  the  storm  to 
seek  her ! — on  that  evening  this  woman,  wno 
was  supposed  to  be  his  wife,  had  committed 
suicide ! 

"  It  is  impossible  ! "  at  length  exclaimed 
Mr.  Templemore.  "I  will  believe  anything 
else — that  never !  Take  those  things  away," 
he  added  angrily,  looking  at  the  clothes,  which 
had  kept  such  strong  traces  of  their  three  days' 
sojourn  in  the  water;  "and  let  me  never  hear 
of  that  Madame  Smith  again  ! " 

"Then  monsieur  would  rather  not  see  the 
photograph  !  "  said  Monsieur  Durand,  leisurely 
tying  up  the  bundle. 

"  What  photograph  ?  "  sharply  asked  Mr. 
Templemore. 

"  Oh  !  it  was  taken  after  death,  you  know." 

A  cold  fear  crept  to  5Ir.  Templemore's  very 
heart,  but  he  would  not  yield  to  it. 

"  Show  it  to  me,"  he  said  briefly. 

Monsieur  Durand  fumbled  in  his  pocket, 
and  drew  forth  a  photograph  ten  inches  square. 


THE  SUICIDE. 


269 


As  he  first  uuwrappcd  and  then  handed  it  to 
Mr.  Templeraore,  he  said  ; 

"  It  had  gone  astray ;  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
that  is  why  monsieur  had  to  wait  two  days." 

Mr.  Templeraore  did  not  heed  or  even  hear 
him.  He  stared  breathless  at  that  image  of 
the  dead — so  cold,  so  calm,  and  so  awfully 
like  her,  and  the  very  beatings  of  his  heart 
seemed  to  grow  still.  Yes,  thus  he  had  seen 
her  sleeping,  with  closed  eyes  and  half-parted 
lips  ;  but  in  another  slumber  than  this.  How 
heavy  seemed  this  sleep !  The  voice  of  love 
would  never  bid  those  pale  lids  unveil  the 
bright  eyes  he  remembered  so  well — never 
more  would  those  lips  smile  half  fondly,  half 
shyly  as  he  spoke.  The  head  which  a  stran- 
ger's hand  had  placed  on  the  pillow  had  sunk 
upon  it  in  such  weariness  of  all  earthly  things, 
that  it  could  never  be  raised  again.  Life  held 
nothing — no  love,  no  voice,  no  aspect  which 
could  waken  this  slumberer  from  her  charmed 
sleep.  She  was  locked  in  it  forever  and  for- 
ever. 

"Was  it  thus?  he  thought.  Perhaps  not, 
but  it  was  thus  he  felt  in  the  first  bitter  agony 
of  that  moment.  "  0  my  God  !  can  it  be  she  ?  " 
he  exclaimed,  with  parched  lips — "  Cim  it  be 
she?" 

The  doubt  following  an  awful  certainty  was  a 
sort  of  exquisite  relief.  For  this  dead  woman 
might  not  be  Dora  after  all.  A  dreadful  past, 
a  bitter  story,  might  have  led  her  to  a  despair- 
ing death,  and  she  might  not  be  his  wife. 
Perhaps  even  she  was  not  so  very  much  like 
her.  Surely  there  had  been  nothing — nothing 
which  could  drive  Dora  to  despair  like  this  ? 
He  looked  again,  but  he  was  not  calm  enough 
to  see  well ;  there  was  a  mist  in  his  eyes,  his 
hand  shook,  he  dreaded  that  fatal  resem- 
blance ;  but  his  will,  which  was  a  strong  one, 
prevailed  and  conquered  that  weakness.  Once 
more  he  saw  that  image,  and  oh !  how  he 
blessed  Heaven  from  the  fulness  of  his  heart — 
it  already  seemed  less  like ! 


"  This  lady  was  older  than  my  wife,"  said 
Mr.  Templeraore ;  "  older  and  thinner." 

"  Photographs  make  people  look  old,"  re- 
marked Monsieur  Durand. 

"She  was  older  than  my  wife,"  persisted  Mr. 
Templemore,  almost  angrily  ;  "  besides,  I  can- 
not trust  a  photograph — every  one  knows  that 
hght,  that  position,  that  the  slightest  accident 
can  produce  a  complete  change  in  a  face,  dead 
or  living." 

He  looked  defiantly  at  Monsieur  Durand, 
who  did  not  answer  one  word.  He  had  not 
come  to  argue  or  to  convince.  All  this  was 
nothing  to  him.  Opposition  could  have  made 
Mr.  Templemore  vow  that  tliis  dead  woman  had 
never  been  his  wife  ;  but  this  cold  silence  threw 
him  back  on  dreadful  uncertainty. 

"  Is  that  all  ? "  he  asked  feverishly  ;  "  is 
there  no  more? — do  you  know  no  more  ?  " 

"No  more,"  laconically  echoed  Monsieur 
Durand ;  "  I  went  to  the  Piue  de  la  Serpe  to 
learn  something  before  I  came  to  monsieur,  but 
there  was  nothing." 

"What  color  was  her  hair  of?"  suddenly 
asked  Mr.  Templeraore. 

Monsieur  Durand  looked  annoyed.  "  Brown, 
I  believe ;  but  they  were  very  negligent,  I  am 
sorry  to  say — they  took  none." 

Monsieur  Durand  said  this  in  a  tone  which 
iraplicd  plainly  that  if  the  case  had  been  in  Ms 
hands,  so  important  a  link  in  the  chain  of  evi- 
dence would  never  have  been  broken. 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  then  Mr.  Temple- 
more said,  "  Take  me  to  that  Kue  de  la  Serpe." 

Monsieur  Durand  bowed,  and  said  not  a 
word.  He  was  one  of  the  modern  slaves  of  the 
lamp,  and  to  obey  the  master  of  the  lamp — 
namely,  the  owner  and  dispenser  of  a  certain 
amount  of  Napoleons — was  his  duty. 

It  is  easy  to  deny  ;  but,  alas  !  denial  is  not 
always  unljelief. 

Mr.  Templeraore  followed  his  conductor,  and 
felt  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  Could  his  keen  and 
anxious  search  for  a  loved  and  living  wife,  end 


270 


DORA. 


tbus  in  the  great  gap  and  dark  pit  of  Death  ? 
Could  the  tender  frame  which  had  been  so  dear 
to  him  have  drifted  helplessly  down  the  dark 
river,  with  the  chill  waters  flowing  over  that 
loved  fiice,  and  loosening  the  long  bright  hair 
his  hand  had  caressed  so  fondly  ? 

There  is  an  unreality  in  the  death  of  what  we 
love,  which  strong  minds  feel  as  well  as  the 
weak.  Death  was  fomiliar  to  Mr.  Templemore's 
mind,  but  not  the  death  of  a  passionately  loved 
woman.  It  was  not  a  certainty  yet,  and  he 
could  not  and  -would  not  believe  it ;  but  be- 
yond that  revolt  and  denial  loomed  a  possibil- 
ity which  invested  the  present  and  every  sur- 
rounding object  with  the  vagueness  of  a  dream. 
The  living  streets  through  which  he  passed  had 
something  abstract  about  them — they  were 
and  they  were  not.  The  roll  of  the  carriages, 
the  sounds  of  life,  came  from  afar,  and  their 
din  and  tumult  were  softened  by  that  distance 
which  one  thought  placed  between  him  and 
all  surrounding  things.  He  did  not  believe  it, 
and  yet  he  shuddered  as  he  saw  the  swollen 
Seine  flowing  on  to  the  sea,  and  bearing  away 
with  it  to  that  great  bourne,  many  an  unkno^vn 
human  burden.    If  it  were  true ! 

They  passed  by  the  Morgue.  He  saw  Mon- 
sieur Durand  glance  toward  it.  He  looked  at 
it  too — with  what  secret  horror  !  If  it  were 
true !  If  she  had  really  rested  there  on  one 
of  those  cold  stone  slabs  which  he  remembered 
so  well !  0  Heaven,  was  that  the  bed  he 
had  made  for  her  !  lie  revolted  against  the 
foul  thought — he  bade  it  defiance.  In  the 
name  of  the  love  which,  though  but  for  a  few 
days,  had  bound  them  so  fondly,  he  bade  it 
begone.  It  was  not  possible  that  she  had  thus 
despaired  of  love  and  life — that  she  whom  he 
had  known  so  joyous,  with  a  brave,  warm  heart 
and  a  living  faith,  had  thus  violently  and  sin- 
fully denied  both. 

It  was  not  possible  ;  but  he  breathed  moi-e 
freely  when  they  left  the  river  behind  them. 
They  entered  a  narrow  stone  world,  dark  and 


stifling,  and  yet  seemed  to  come  no  nearer  to 
the  goal  of  their  journey.  At  length  Monsieur 
Durand  stood  still,  and  when  Mr.  Templemore 
came  up  to  him,  he  said : 

"  This  is  the  Rue  de  la  Serpe,  and  yonder, 
where  you  see  the  brlc-d-b)'ac  shop,  is  the  house. 
Shall  I  go  with  monsieur,  or  does  he  wish  to 
go  alone  ?  " 

"  I  shall  go  alone.  Tou  need  not  wait  for 
me,  thank  you." 

Monsieur  Durand  bowed,  turned  the  corner 
of  a  street,  and  vanished.  Perhaps  he  did  not 
go  very  far,  after  all,  but  Mr.  Templemore 
neither  knew  nor  cared.  The  setting  sun  filled 
the  street  with  its  level  rays,  and  half  blinded 
him  as  he  walked  up  to  the  bric-d-brac  shop. 
Oh  !  that  the  street  had  had  no  ending — that 
this  goal  had  never  been  reached,  if  it  v^as  to 
lead  to  cruel  knowledge ! 

The  house  was  mean  and  narrow.  Above 
the  door  dangled  a  yeUow  bill  with  "  Furnished 
Room  to  Let."  The  shop  was  one  of  the  poor- 
est of  its  kind.  Here  were  no  rare  relics  of  the 
past,  each  telling  the  story  of  a  king's  reign. 
No  tapestry,  no  Sevres,  no  Boucher  and  Wat- 
teau  shepherdesses,  no  traces  even  of  Revolu- 
tion and  Empire,  or  tokens  of  the  East,  in  blue 
vases  and  gilt  dragons,  were  there.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore saw  nothing  but  the  dingy,  common- 
place and  dilapidated  ruins  of  the  present  gen- 
eration. Shattered  mahogany  chests  of  draw- 
ers, ruined  card-tables,  with  the  green  baize 
half  torn  off,  faded  artificial  flowers  in  com- 
mon china  vases  under  dusty  glass  shades,  and 
showy  little  gilt  clocks,  abounded.  But  com- 
monplace tliough  all  these  objects  were,  they 
were  also  very  dreary.  They  told  of  ruined 
and  broken  homes,  and  told  it  without  the 
softening  grace  of  the  past. 

Mr.  Templemore  entered  the  shop.  A  stout, 
middle-aged  woman  came  forward,  and  asked 
his  pleasure. 

"  You  have  a  furnished  room  to  let,"  he  re- 
plied— "  let  me  see  it." 


THE   LOCK   OF  HAIR. 


271 


"  This  way,  sir  ; "  and  leaving  the  shop  in 
the  care  of  a  child,  she  showed  him  up  a  dark, 
steep  staircase,  into  a  small,  gloomy  bedroom, 
which,  spite  the  heat  of  the  day,  felt  strangely 
chill.  Wliy  are  these  places  alike  all  the  world 
over  ?  Why  do  they  all  bear  the  same  cold, 
homeless  look,  which,  with  every  difference 
of  climate  and  manners,  we  recognize  at  once  ? 
Mr.  Templemore  looked  about  him,  but  the 
plain  bed  of  walnut-tree  wood,  the  chest  of 
drawers  and  toilet-table,  told  him  no  storv. 
Everything  was  tolerably  clean  and  dreadfully 
comfortless.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
opened  it.  Below  him  lay  a  small  yard.  The 
greenish  hue  of  the  stones  with  which  it  was 
paved  told  of  habitual  damp.  A  tall,  miser- 
able-looking pump  stood  in  one  corner.  A 
few  flowers  in  pots,  withering  for  want  of  sun 
and  pure  air,  had  been  placed  near  it.  Heaven 
knows  for  what  purpose.  High  walls  dotted 
with  windows  enclosed  this  court,  and  made  a 
well  of  it.  Mr.  Templemore  shut  the  window 
with  a  sh'ght  shiver.  Was  it  possible  that  her 
eyes  had  gazed  on  that  dreary  prospect  ?  Had 
she  lain  and  brooded  over  her  wrongs  in  that 
wretched  bed,  until  she  rose  on  her  last  morn- 
ing, resolved  to  end  all  that  night  ?  Oh,  in- 
sufferable thought ! 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  room,  sir,"  said  the  ]nar- 
chandc  cheerfully — "  nice  and  airy." 

"  Yet  some  people  might  object  to  it,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Templemore. 

"  Why  should  they,  sir  ?  "  was  the  prompt 
reply. 

"  You  know  my  meaning,"  he  said. 

"  Ah !  about  the  poor  lady.  Why  sir,  she 
did  not  do  it  here.  She  was  not  even  brought 
home  here." 

She  spoke  of  it  in  a  commonplace,  matter- 
of-fact  tone  that  sickened  him.  He  could  bear 
this  no  longer.  He  opened  his  pocket-book, 
and  took  out  a  paper,  which  contained  a  lock 
of  Dora's  hair. 

Brief  though  Mr.  Templemore's  wooing  had 


been,  he  and  Dora  had,  nevertheless,  read  to- 
gether a  few  opening  cnapters  of  the  long,  fair 
book  of  love.  One  day,  when  he  pressed  her 
to  importunity  to  accept  a  gift  from  him,  and 
she  refused,  with  the  proud,  sad  question, 
"  What  can  I  give  you  in  I'cturn,  Mr.  Temple- 
more ?  "  he  had  lifted  up  one  of  the  locks  of 
hair  she  wore  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon  at  the 
back  of  her  head  in  a  nymph-like  fashion, 
which  he  had  praised  once,  and  he  had  said, 
with  a  smile,  "  You  could  give  me  this."  "  Hair 
is  too  dear,"  mischievously  answered  Dora.  Mr. 
Templemore,  who  knew  that  a  lady's  locks  are 
not  always  her  own,  blushed.  Dora  laughed, 
and  Mrs.  Courtenay,  untying  the  blue  ribbon, 
let  her  daughter's  long  rich  curls  flow  loosely, 
and  at  once  cut  off  one,  which  she  trium- 
phantly placed  in  Mr.  Templemoi'e's  hand.  It 
was  Dora's  turn  to  look  rueful,  and  his  to 
smile.  He  had  reached  the  age,  indeed,  when 
even  an  enamoured  man  does  not  think  it  a 
priceless  boon  to  have  a  lock  of  a  beloved 
woman's  hair ;  besides,  that  bright  head  was 
almost  his,  and  such  instalments  lose  in  value 
when  possession  is  near  and  sure ;  but  there  is 
a  pleasure  in  receiving  the  keys  of  a  con-, 
quered  citadel,  even  though  its  capitulation  be 
imminent;  and  so,  as  he  held  this  token  of 
her  subjection,  Mr.  Templemore  looked  at  his 
future  wife  with  gentle  and  not  uukind  triumph, 
and  the  lock  thus  won  he  kept  very  carefully 
— it  was  useless,  but  it  was  dear.  Now,  how- 
ever, its  use  had  come.  That  lock  of  hair 
might  save  him  from  long  misery. 

"  Was  her  hair  like  this '? "  he  asked,  in  a 
broken  voice,  and  with  a  fiice  so  pale  that  the 
woman  drew  back  startled.  "  Speak  !  Oh ! 
for  God's  sake,  speak  !  "  he  urged.  "  Tel!  me 
the  truth,  whatever  that  may  be." 

"  I  know  nothing,  sir,"  replied  the  mar- 
clmnde  ;  "  I  never  saw  the  j)oor  lady.  It  was 
my  cousin  who  kept  the  shop  then." 

"  Your  cousin,  where  is  she  ?  She  must 
tell  me — she  shall !  " 


272 


DOHA. 


His  looks  and  liis  tones  had  passed  from 
grief  to  menace.  But  there  is  one  with  whom 
we  must  reckon  in  every  human  emergency,  a 
grim  keeper  of  secrets,  whom  no  threats  can 
terrify,  whom  no  promises  can  bribe,  and  that 
one  now  cho^e  to  step  in  between  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore  and  the  knowledge  he  wanted. 

"  My  cousin  is  dead,  sir,"  said  the  mar- 
chande. 

Dead  !  That  woman  whom  he  had  delayed 
to"question  till  the  last  moment,  so  much  did 
he  dread  her  reply,  was  now  forever  beyond 
his  reach.  He  was  baffled  again;  another 
dead  woman  stood  between  him  and  the  truth ; 
yet  it  was  a  terrible  sort  of  relief  to  feel  that 
he  could  not  get  at  the  fatal  certainty ;  to 
doubt  meant  to  Hope. 

"  And  so  that  was  her  hair,"  said  the  woman, 
looking  curiously  at  the  lock  of  hair  which  his 
passive  hand  still  held  ;  "  very  beautiful  hair 
— ^I  remember  my  poor  cousin  said  so." 

She  looked  both  inquisitive  and  interested. 
He  saw  that  the  knowledge  he  so  dreaded 
would  be  welcome  to  that  woman.  She  wanted 
the  mystery  of  that  drama  to  be  solved,  and 
there  would  be  a  grim  satisfaction  to  her  in 
the  knell  of  all  his  hopes.  He  hurriedly  hid 
the  hair  from  her  sight.  He  would  not  trust 
her.  In  her  wish  to  find  a  meaning  to  the  sad 
story  of  the  unknown  dead,  she  might  deceive 
herself  and  help  to  deceive  him. 

"  I  think  it  was  chiefly  by  her  hair  my 
cousin  identified  the  poor  lady,"  continued  the 
marchande  ;  "  I  know  it  was  beautiful  hair." 

Mr.  Templemore  heard  her  and  was  mute  ; 
the  conviction  and  the  hope  with  which  he  had 
entered  this  place  were  leaving  him  inch  by 
inch.  He  did  his  best  to  keep  them — ^he 
grasped  them  as  a  drowning  man  grasps  his 
last  plank  of  safety,  and  they  would  not  abide 
with  him.  They  floated  farther  and  farther 
away  on  the  dark  and  dismal  sea  of  doubt.  He 
did  not  indeed  believe  that  the  suicide  and  his 
wife  were  one,  but  then  he  was  no  longer  sure 


that  they  were  not.  He  could  not  speak,  he 
could  not  argue,  he  could  not  even  hear  this 
mentioned.  He  went  down-stairs,  and  slipping 
some  money  in  the  child's  hand,  he  left  the 
shop  without  saying  a  word.  He  walked 
away,  not  knowing  whither  he  went,  neither 
thinking  nor  remembering  aught  beyond  a 
ceaseless  question,  which  ever  rang  within  him 
like  a  knell,  "  Was  it  Dora  ?  " 

When  thought  returned  to  Mr.  Templemore, 
he  was  standing  on  the  quays,  with  the  river, 
the  bridges,  and  a  distant  prospect  of  church 
towers  on  one  hand,  and  the  verdure  of  trees 
on  the  other.  The  soft  bluish  mists  of  even- 
ing were  abroad,  and  rosy  clouds,  still  flushed 
with  the  sunset,  floated  across  the  sky.  It  was 
a  fair  and  delicious  picture,  and  yet  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore felt  as  if  it  broke  his  heart.  His  for- 
titude seemed  to  give  way  every  time  he  gazed 
on  those  dark  green  waters,  and  still  he  lin- 
gered near  them.  Gradually  his  steps  led  him 
to  that  bridge  built  with  the  stones  of  the 
Bastile,  whence  the  dead  woman  was  said  to 
have  taken  her  fatal  spring.  The  palace  of  the 
Corps  Legislatif  rises  at  one  end  of  the  bridge, 
and  at  the  other  extends  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, with  its  eight  statues  of  the  cities  of 
France,  its  bronzed  fountains,  and  its  old 
Egyptian  obelisk.  The  night  was  one  of  fuU 
moon,  and  it  was  both  bright  and  calm.  The 
reflection  of  the  lights  burning  on  distant 
bridges  scarcely  quivered  in  the  waters  of  the 
quiet  river.  Mr.  Templemore  looked  at  it  as 
he  walked  up  and  down  the  bridge,  striving 
agaiust  the  cruel  tempter  who  ever  whispered : 
"  What  if  it  should  be  true  ?  " 

It  is  strange  how  hateful  senseless,  inani- 
mate objects  can  become  when  such  a  mood 
as  Mr.  Templemore's  is  upon  us.  Every  time 
he  came  back  to  the  palace  of  the  French 
Legislative  Assembly,  and  saw  the  statues  of 
Sully,  d'Agucsseau,  I'Hopital,  and  Colbert, 
who  sit  so  calmly  guarding  its  wide  gales,  a 
sort  of  wrath  at  their  stillness  and  unchung- 


DR.   LTJAN   REPORTS   HIS   COUSIN'S   DEATH. 


273 


ing  a'titudo,  at  that  peace  of  the  grave  wliich 
had  been  tlieirs  so  long,  and  now  seemed  trans- 
mitted to  their  ftone  effigies,  rose  within  him. 
After  awliilc  he  felt  that  he  could  not  bear 
this  any  longer.  He  left  the  bridge  and  struck 
into  that  long  avenue  of  trees  which  follows 
the  course  of  the  river.  It  was  a  green  wilder- 
ness in  the  days  v.'hcn  Anne  of  Austria  was 
gay  and  young,  and  for  her  sake  it  is  still 
called  Cours  la  Reine.  He  went  again  over  the 
evening's  dreary  story,  and  the  resemblance 
between  Dora  and  the  photograph  seemed 
to  fade  away  as  he  thought  of  it.  Was  not 
Nanette's  enamel  like  Dora  ?  Did  not  the 
young  actress  recall  her?  What  was  there  in 
that  likeness,  after  all,  that  he  should  go 
through  sftch  agony  ?  Hope  grew  stronger  as 
calmness  returned  to  his  mind,  bringing  with 
it  the  greatest  sense  of  relief  he  had  expe- 
rienced since  his  weary  search  began.  It 
seemed  as  if  by  passing  through  this  terrible 
doubt  he  had  gained  all  that  he  had  not  ac- 
tually lost. 

At  length  he  turned  homeward.  He  passed 
by  one  of  the  Cafes  Chantants.  The  little 
stage  looked  bright  in  the  darkness  of  the  sur- 
rounding trees.  Three  girls  in  scarlet  cloaks 
were  sitting,  a  fourth  in  bine  stood  and  sang. 
"  She  is  consumptive,"  thought  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  giving  her  a  critical  look.  "Poor  little 
thing,  how  long  will  she  last,  with  those  bare 
shoulders  and  the  night  air  ?  "  He  had  stopped 
for  a  moment;  he  now  walked  on,  and  as  he 
thus  turned  away  he  saw  a  pale,  stern  face  be- 
hind him — the  face  of  John  Luan. 

"  Pray  hear  the  singer  out,"  said  the  young 
man;  "I  should  be  sorry  to  interfere  with 
your  pleasure." 

He  got  no  answer.  There  was  something 
in  his  aspect  which  sent  a  chill  to  Mr.  Temple- 
more's  heart.  It  was  as  if  his  fate  had  risen 
from  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  now  stood 
before  him.  They  botli  remained  a  few  mo- 
ments silent,  then  John  Luan  spoke  again. 
IS 


"  I  come  to  bring  you  the  news  you  asked 
of  me  two  months  back.  I  learned,  no  matter 
how,  that  you  were  in  Paris,  and  I  followed 
you  for  that." 

Still  Mr.  Templemore  did  not  answer,  but 
he  walked  beyond  the  circle  of  the  crowd,  and 
John  Luan  followed  him.  When  they  stood 
alone  near  one  of  the  gas-lights  of  the  avenue, 
John  Luan  said : 

"  I  bring  you  ncv,s  of  your  wife,  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore— she  is  dead  !  " 

"  'Tis  false  !  "  angrily  replied  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  She  is  dead,"  doggedly  said  John  Luan. 
"  You  have  killed  her — remember  that.  You 
took  her  to  your  house  young,  innocent,  and 
happy,  and  you  disgraced  her — I  knov/  it  all 
now — you  robbed  her  of  fair  name,  peace,  and 
finally  of  life — remember  that,  I  say  !  Your 
wife  is  dead  !  " 

"  How  and  when  did  she  die  ?  " 

"  That  you  shall  never  know  from  me.  She 
died  a  cruel,  despairing  death.  That  much  I 
can  tell  you." 

"  I  defy  you  to  prove  it !  "  said  Mr.  Temple- 
more,  trembling  with  passion. 

"I  shall  never  attempt  to  do  that,"  replied 
John  Luan,  with  a  cold,  stern  smile,  "  never. 
She  has  been  dead  two  months,  and  two 
months  I  have  known  it,  and  I  have  not  said 
a  word,  I  have  not  made  a  sign.  Did  you 
think  that  I  would  help  you,  you  her  mur- 
derer, to  happiness  and  liberty  ?  Did  you 
think  that  any  assistance  of  mine  would  en- 
able you  to  marry  Florence  Gale  ?  No — she 
is  dead,  but  you  shall  never  be  able  to  prove 
it.  You  shall  never  recover  and  enjoy  your 
liberty.  If  you  really  doubt,  you  shall  doubt 
on,  and  be  thus  chastised.  And  if  you  do  not 
doubt,  yet,  as  you  shall  never  ))e  able  to  im- 
part your  certainty  to  others,  so  shall  yon 
again  be  chastised.  And  thu&,"  added  Jolm 
Luan,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  fiice,  "  I 
shall  have  my  revenge." 


274 


DORA. 


"  Your  revenge,  because  Dora  loved  me  !  " 
replied  Mr.  Templemore,  with  much  indigna- 
tion. "  If  I  did  not  think  you  half  mad,  Mr. 
Luan — for  your  language  is  not  that  of  a  sane 
man — I  would  tell  you  that  my  revenge  for 
your  malice  will  be  to  recover  my  wife  and 
be  happy  with  her.  You  say  she  is  dead,  and 
I  tell  you  she  is  living !  1  tell  you  nothing 
shall  convince  me  that  she  and  the  unhnppy 
woman  of  the  Rue  de  la  Serpe  were  one.  You 
see  I  am  better  informed  than  you  think,  and 
yet  I  am  not  convinced.  I  have  seen  the 
house,  the  room,  the  clothes,  the  photograph 
even  of  the  dead  woman,  and  I  tell  you,  for 
your  comfort,  that  she  was  not  your  cousin 
and  my  wife." 

John  Luan  looked  confounded,  but  he  soon 
recovered,  and  said : 

"  You  were  not  in  Paris,  Mr.  Templemore, 
when  she  was  taken  out  of  the  water,  not  very 
far  from  this  spot ;  I  was.  You  were  away 
when  she  was  brought  to  the  Morgue ;  I  was 
here,  and  I  saw  her.  I  saw  her  lying  dead 
before  me.  I  have  known  her  from  child- 
hood, and  I  tell  you  I  saw  her.  I  stood  be- 
hind the  grating  as  she  lay  there  cold  and  in- 
animate. I  tell  you  I  saw  her.  I  neither 
claimed  nor  identified  her — why  should  I  set 
you  free  ? — but  I  saw  her.  And  now  you  may 
believe  me  or  not — it  matteis  very  little.  I 
am  mad — am  I  ?  Good-night,  Mr.  Temple- 
more." 

He  laughed  scornfully,  and  walked  away, 
and  Mr.  Templemore  let  him  go.  Ee  felt 
stunned.  Was  it  true  ?  Had  John  Luan 
really  seen  her  ?  Had  he  been  mistaken  in 
her  identity — such  things  have  been — or  was 
it  really  Dora?  Was  that  photograph,  so 
strangely  like  her,  the  true  image  of  his  dead 
wife  ?  And  yet  what  is  there  in  a  likeness  ? 
Was  not  Nanette's  enamel  portrait,  of  a  woman 
who  had  been  dead  two  hundred  years,  like 
Dora? 

"  But  not  90  like  as  this,"  thought  Mr.  Tem- 


plemore, with  sudden  anguish ;  "  besides,  he 
should  know  her.  Only  he  may  be  mad,  or  a 
liar ;  this  may  be  a  plot  to  deceive  me." 

Imagination  is  a  tormenting  gift.  As  Mr. 
Templemore  walked  home  under  the  arcades 
of  the  Rue  de  Rivoh,  strange  thoughts  walked 
with  him.  It  was  no  longer  the  great  ques- 
tion, was  Dora  dead  or  living — but  was  Dora 
false  or  true  ?  "  Is  this  a  conspiracy  of  that 
young  man  against  me,"  thought  Mr.  Temple- 
more, as  he  went  up  to  his  room,  "and  is 
Dora  in  it?  Will  they  go  away  together 
somewhere,  and,  deceiving  me  and  the  world 
with  a  feigned  tale  of  death,  get  married,  and 
be  lost  forever  ?  " 

For  a  moment  jealousy  and  wrath  over- 
powered every  other  feeling.  Rgason  was 
wrecked,  and  Mr.  Templemore  could  only 
think,  with  impotent  fury,  of  the  hateful 
story  he  had  conjured  up.  Dora,  his  wife, 
forsaking  and  betraying  him  thus  !  But  sud- 
denly his  wrath  fell,  and  was  followed  by  a 
great  calmness.  How  or  why  he  thought  of 
this  he  knew  not ;  but  he  remembered  how, 
entering  his  wife's  room  one  morning  at  Dee- 
nah,  he  had  found  her  praying.  Her  kneel- 
ing attitude,  her  bent  face  and  clasped  hands, 
came  back  to  him,  and  softened  him  in  a 
moment.  She,  Dora,  his  young,  pious,  and 
innocent  wife,  perjuring  herself  to  commit 
bigamy  with  John  Luan  ! 

How  could  he  think  it,  and  yet  remember 
how  utterly  John  Luan  had  failed,  and  how 
completely  he  had  succeeded  with  Dora  ? 
There  is  a  strange  sweetness  in  triumph  ;  the 
wisest  and  the  best  are  not  insensible  to  it. 
Mr.  Templemore  felt  moved  and  softened  as 
the  thought  of  the  past  came  back  to  him. 
Yes,  he  had  prevailed,  with  scarcely  an  effort, 
whilst  John  Luan,  after  patient  years,  had 
been  balked.  He  had  won  the  prize  for 
which  another  had  toiled ;  and  she  had  been 
his,  all  his;  too  much  his,  for  if  he  had 
thought  he  could   lose  her,  he  would  nl||JP* 


MRS.   COURTENAY'S  DISCONTENT. 


275 


have  left  lior.  She  had  been  so  easily  won, 
that  he  had  felt  secure,  too  secure  by  far,  and 
now  he  paid  for  his  past  folly  by  the  torment- 
ing doubts  of  the  present. 

For,  after  all,  Mr.  Templemore  doubted. 
He  had  faith  and  hope,  but  no  certitude. 
Even  if  his  wife  were  not  now  sleeping  in  an 
unknown  grave,  he  had  her  not,  he  knew 
nothing  of  the  road  she  had  taken,  of  the 
spot  that  held  her,  and,  hard  ftite,  he  knew 
not  how  to  seek  for  her.  No  mariner  lost  at 
sea,  with  neither  chart  nor  compass,  could 
be  more  at  a  lo;s  than  he  was. 

It  was  inevitable,  perhaps,  that  something 
of  resentment  should  mingle  with  these 
thoughts.  For,  after  all,  he  did  not  think 
he  had  deserved  to  be  so  deserted,  with  aban- 
donment so  complete,  and  silence  so  scornful. 
Dora  might  have  remembered  their  dignity, 
ere  she  had  thus  laid  bare  to  the  world  the 
sad  secrets  of  their  married  life.  And  thus 
one  after  the  other  the  angry  thoughts  came 
rising  slowly,  but  surely,  like  the  waves  of  a 
sullenly  wrathful  sea,  drowning  in  their  tide 
tenderness,  regret,  and  even  the  fair  image 
of  hope,  till  suddenly  Mr.  Templemore's  eyes 
fell  on  the  photograph.  Monsieur  Durand 
had  taken  the  other  things ;  this  he  had 
either  forgotten  or  left  designedly.  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore took  it  in  his  hand,  and  looked  at  it. 
How  like  it  seemed,  and  how  the  likeness 
grew  as  he  looked  on  ! 

"  If  I  could  believe  it,"  he  thought,  and  his 
lips  quivered  as  he  said  it  to  his  own  heart — 
"  if  I  could  think  this  image  showed  her  poor 
dead  face,  and  that  unkindness  of  mine  had 
driven  her  to  such  a  death,  life  would  hence- 
forth be  a  blank  page,  oue  on  which  neither 
love,  nor  hate,  nor  happiness,  nor  enjoyment 
could  ever  again  be  written  for  me." 

Many  have  said  such  things  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  remorse  or  in  the  first  burst  of  grief; 
pt  how  many  have  abided  by  them  ? 

*  God  help  me ! "  thought  Mr.  Templemore 


in  the  agony  of  his  doubt — "  God  help  me ! 
It  is  cruelly  like  her  !  "  And  st^ll  he  held  it 
and  gazed  on,  and  he  could  not  put  the 
image  by. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

The  light  of  a  pale  autumn  sunbeam  fell 
exactly  on  Mrs.  Courtenay's  face,  and  it  showed 
very  plainly  that  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  frown- 
ing. A  frown  was  a  very  unusual  thing  in- 
deed on  that  lady's  smooth  forehead,  and  it 
required  so  ominous  a  fact  as  three  successive 
failures  of  her  favorite  patience,  to  bring  any- 
thing like  it  there.  But  nothing  was  incred- 
ible or  impossible  after  such  a  calamity ;  and 
there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it — Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay was  frowning.  She  threw  the  cards 
down  pettishly,  and  murmured  with  ill-re- 
pressed indignation  as  she  looked  around  the 
room,  "  It  is  all  Dora's  fivult." 

The  room  was  not  a  gay  one,  certainly.  It 
was  dull,  meanly  furnished,  and  it  looked  out 
on  a  bleak,  bare  field,  with  a  lowering  autumn 
sky  above  it.  A  pretty  change,  indeed,  from 
the  grave  old  splendors  of  Les  Roches ! 

"  I  do  believe  the  girl  must  be  crazy ! " 
thought  Mrs.  Courtenay — "as  crazy  as  her 
poor  aunt ! " 

Here  Dora's  voice  singing  gayly  in  the  next 
room  added  fuel  to  the  fire  of  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay's indignation. 

"Garry  Owen  indeed!"  she  thought;  "a 
pretty  time  to  sing  about  Garry  or  Terry,  or 
Jerry  even ! " 

What  Jerry  had  to  do  with  it  no  one  could 
have  said,  not  even  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  but  the 
three  names  certainly  relieved  her,  for  the 
frown  was  gone  when  Dora  entered  the  room, 
in  full  song,  as  her  mother  mentally  called  it. 

Dora  had  never  looked  brighter,  gayer,  or 
more  cheerful  than  she  looked  now.  Never 
in  the  hopeful  days  of  her  girlhood  had  she 
had  a  sunnier  look  than  that  which  she  wore 


276 


DORA. 


on  this  day.  But  for  all  hep  cheerfulness, 
Dora's  cheeks  were  pale  and  thin,  and  gayly 
though  she  sang,  her  eyes  were  sunk.  Per- 
haps, too,  Mrs.  Courtenay  might  have  noticed 
or  remembered,  that,  in  the  old  happy  days, 
Dora's  songs  had  been  sad — doleful,  her 
mother  called  them — whereas  now  they  were 
light  and  gay,  when  they  were  not  actually 
merry.  But  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  not  a  very 
clear-sighted  person,  and  Dora's  gayety  now 
so  far  exasperated  her,  that  she  sat  mute  and 
sulky,  and  folded  her  arms  in  silent  protest. 

"  Wliat !  can't  you  get  on  with  the  pa- 
tience ?  "  asked  Dora  in  her  lightest  voice, 
and  with  a  little  ringing,  silvery  laugh.  "  Let 
me  try." 

She  sat  down  and  stretched  her  hand  tow- 
ard the  cards;  but  Mrs.  Courtenay  took  them 
up,  made  a  packet  of  them,  and  deliberately 
put  them  underneath  the  cushion  of  the  chair 
on  which  she  was  sitting ;  after  which  she 
looked  rather  sternly  at  her  daughter. 

Dora  laughed  again.  She  laughed  very 
often  now. 

"  What  have  I  done  now  ?  "  she  asked,  in 
her  cheerful,  good-humored  voice ;  "  come, 
tell  me  my  new  sin,  mamma." 

"  Dora,  I  am  veiy  angry,"  solemnly  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay.  "Why  did  you  lure  me 
away  from  Les  Eoches  to — to  this  horrible 
little  hole  ?  "  she  added,  suddenly  raising  her 
voice  into  her  favorite  little  scream. 

"Dear  mamma,"  replied  Dora,  looking 
amused,  "it  was  agreed  we  wanted  a  change — 
and  you  know  Les  Roches  was  a  dreadful 
place,  after  what  happened  to  poor  Aunt 
Luan.  And  this  is  a  lovely  spot,  and  not  a 
horrible  little  hole,  as  you  very  unkindly  call 
it." 

"Why  did  we  not  go  to  Ireland?"  asked 
Mrs.  Courtenay.  "  I  have  been  very  happy 
with  my  dear  husband,  and  Paul  and  you,  and 
even  with  poor  Mrs.  Luan,  in  Ireland.  And  it 
is  quite  absurd,  Dora,  that  we  should  be  living 


here  in  this  ridiculous  little  place,  instead  of 
being  down  at  Deenah !  Deenah  was  my 
brother-in-law's,  and  it  is  your  husband's ; 
and  it  is  quite  absurd  that  I  should  never  have 
seen  it,  and  more  than  absurd  that  we  should 
be  paying  rent  here,  whilst  there  is  a  beautiful 
house  doing  nothing  and  waiting  for  us." 

"  Well,  mamma,  when  Mr.  Templemore 
comes  and  looks  for  us,  we  will  go  to  Deenah." 

"  But  Mr.  Templemore  is  not  coming,  and 
he  does  not  write,  and  you  do  not  write  to 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  rocking  herself  to 
and  fi'O  in  indignation  and  wonder.  "  I  never 
heard  anythhig  like  it  —  never,  Dora,"  she 
added,  with  as  much  severity  (and  it  was  very 
little)  as  she  could  infuse  in  the  words,  "  you 
have  behaved  very  badly  to  your  husband." 

Dora  seemed  much  amused,  and  shook  her 
bright  head,  looking  all  the  time  like  a  merry 
girl  who  has  been  working  some  piece  of  mis- 
chief, and  who  enjoys  it ;  but  there  was  a 
strange,  nervous  twitching  about  her  lips,  even 
whilst  she  laughed. 

"  Dear  mamma,"  she  said  gayly,  "if  he  does 
not  care  enough  for  me  to  come  and  seek  me, 
I  cannot  help  it,  can  I  ?  And  it  is  no  use 
being  vexed  or  angry  about  it — he  did  not 
marry  me  for  love,  you  know." 

"  And  how  does  he  know  where  you  are  ?  " 
angrily  asked  Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "just  tell  me 
.that?" 

"  He  will  find  it  out  when  he  wants  me," 
replied  Dora,  with  a  pretty  toss  of  her  bright 
head. 

"  Dora,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  as  much 
solemnity  (and  again  we  say  it  was  not  much) 
which  she  could  convey  into  her  look  and 
manner,  "are  you  getting  frivolous?  Why, 
you  seem  to  have  no  conception  of  a  wife's 
position  and  duty !  " 

"  Dear  mamma,"  gayly  said  Dora,  "  I  was  so 
short  a  time  a  wife !  And  I  have  always  been 
light-hearted,  you  know.  Why,  Mr.  Temple- 
more said  to  me  once,  it  was  like  sunshine  to . 


HOPE   AND   REALITY. 


277 


have  me  iv.  a  room,  I  was  so  bright  a  creature. 
For,  you  know,  he  used  to  make  pretty 
speeches  to  me,  even  though  he  was  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Logan  all  the  time.  And  I  suppose 
that  sunny  girls,  if  one  may  call  them  so,  have 
no  great  depth  of  feeling.  Another  woman 
would  fret  and  cry  perhaps  because  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore  is  not  coming.  Better  sing  and  be 
gay,  as  I  am,"  added  Dora,  with  her  brightest 
smile. 

"  I  never  could  understand  you,  Dora,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  looking  profoundly  puzzled; 
"  never.  You  adored  Paul,  and  when  we  lost 
him — "  added  Mrs.  Courtenay,  with  a  tremor 
in  her  voice. 

"  I  was  as  gay  as  ever,  after  a  time,"  sug- 
gested Dora.  "  Why,  yes ;  you  see,  mamma, 
you  are  French,  and  I  am  Irish,  that  is  the 
difference.  We  Irish,"  she  added,  looking 
very  saucy,  "  are  more  Celtic  than  you  are. 
And  we  are  not  half  civilized  yet,  as  the  whole 
world  can  tell  you.  When  we  suffer  we  give 
a  great  cry,  a  terrible  wail,  like  a  keene  over 
the  dead ;  then  we  are  gay  aud  lively  again, 
being,  as  the  whole  world  also  knows,  a  very 
merry  people,  light-hearted  and  light-headed. 
It  is  a  dispensation  of  Providence,  I  have  no 
doubt,"  added  Dora,  with  a  touch  of  irony ; 
"  but  if  I  have  my  share  of  the  national  gift, 
why  reproach  me  with  it  ?  After  all,  mamma, 
I  suspect  I  am  a  more  cheerful  companion 
than  if  I  had  a  solemn  English  grief  or  a  dec- 
orous French  one.  Then  you  have  the  com- 
fort of  knowing  that  when  I  leave  you,  as  I 
must  this  afternoon,  I  am  not  fretting  my 
heart  out,  but  just  taking  life  easily  and 
merrily." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  wish  you  would  not  leave  me," 
said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  a  little  pettishly;  "  what 
can  you  want  in  Rouen  to-day  ?  " 

"  Must  I  not  see  about  money — money  ?  " 
gayly  asked  Dora ;  "  good,  kind  Mr.  Ryan  is 
not  here  to  help  me  now — I  must  do  it  all  my- 
Bclf,  you  know." 


Still,  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  querulous,  and 
wondered  why  Dora  must  needs  go  to  Rouen ; 
but  Dora  gave  her  a  kiss,  told  her  not  to  won- 
der if  she  did  not  come  in  to  tea,  and  ran  up- 
stairs to  dress. 

"But  she  must  come  in  to  tea,"  thought 
Mrs.  Courtenay  ;  "  I  must  tell  her  so." 

But  Dora  did  not  give  her  mother  the  op- 
portunity. She  slipped  down-stairs  unheard, 
and  bade  Mrs.  Courtenay  adieu  by  tapping  at 
the  parlor  window  aa  she  passed  it  on  her 
way  out.  Mrs.  Courtenay,  indeed,  opened  the 
window,  and  called  her  daughter  back — in 
vain.  Dora  had  already  turned  the  corner  of 
the  house,  and  did  not,  or  would  not,  hear  the 
summons. 

"  She  is  getting  a  very  disobedient  girl," 
thought  Mrs.  Courtenay,  in  some  indignation. 
"  I  need  not  wonder  she  behaves  so  badly  to 
Mr.  Templemore  when  she  treats  me  so." 

But  Mrs.  Courtenay's  wrath  was  never  very 
long-lived.  It  gradually  calmed  down,  and 
though  she  thought  herself  very  ill-used,  she 
took  refuge  and  sought  for  consolation  in  a 
patience.  But  the  pack  of  cards  which  she 
had  so  indignantly  put  away  out  of  Dora's 
reach  did  not  seem  to  Mrs.  Courtenay  a  suffi- 
ciently lucky  one. 

"  I  shall  do  it  for  a  wish,"  she  thought,  "  and 
I  shall  take  a  fresh  pack.  If  I  succeed  at 
once,  it  is  a  proof  that  Mr.  Templemore  will 
soon  come  and  fetch  us.  If  I  have  some 
trouble  about  it,  as  is  likely,  why,  then  we 
must  wait,  I  suppose  ;  and  if  I  fail — "  Here 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  who  had  risen,  and  was  going 
up-stairs  for  the  cards,  paused,  with  her  hand 
on  the  lock,  and  stood  still  in  some  perplexity. 
She  was  not  one  of  your  bold  spirits,  who  will 
stake  their  all  on  one  cast,  and  trust  Fate  with 
too  much,  so  she  looked  for  a  third  alterna- 
tive, which  should  neither  be  success  nor 
failure,  and  she  found  it  in  the  evasive  bit  of 
commonplace,  "  If  I  fail,  it  is  sure  proof  that 
Mr.    Templemore   knows   nothing   about   it." 


278 


DORA. 


But  about  what  Mr.  Templemore  knew  noth- 
ing, or  how  he  could  possibly  be  ignorant  of 
Dora's  flight,  Mrs.  Courtenay  forgot  to  say  to 
herself,  and  quite  triumphant  at  the  loophole 
through  which  she  had  escaped  destiny,  she 
went  up-stairs  to  look  for  her  pack  of  cards. 
To  her  great  annoyance,  she  found  none  in  her 
room ;  she  searched  up  and  down,  but  no 
cards  were  to  be  got.  Yet  Dora  had  bought 
her  a  pack — it  was  only  yesterday.  Where 
had  she  put  them  ?  Mrs.  Courtenay  entered 
her  daughter'.s  room,  a  poor  and  meanly-fur- 
nished one.  Mrs.  Courtenay's  heart  swelled. 
"Were  this  low  bed,  with  its  shabby  chintz 
curtains,  this  painted  chest  of  drawers,  that 
dilapidated  wash-hand  stand — were  these  fit 
for  the  mistress  of  Les  Roches,  and  the  wife 
of  Richard  Templemore  ? 

"  She  must  be  crazy,"  indignantly  thought 
Mrs.  Courtenay ;  "  her  Aunt  Luan  was  mad  " — 
they  had  heard  of  Mrs.  Luan's  death — "  and 
Dora  got  it  from  her,  and  is  crazy.  But  my 
mind  is  quite  made  up — I  shall  wait  a  while 
longer,  then  write  to  Mr.  Templemore,  and 
ask  him  what  he  means  by  letting  his  wife 
run  away  from  him  so.  Now  the  cards  must 
be  in  one  of  these  drawers.  I  wonder  in 
which  ?  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  had  a  natural  hatred  of 
trouble.  She  tried  to  guess  which  drawer 
could  possibly  hold  the  cards  she  was  looking 
for,  but  as  none  bore  a  label  telling  lookers-on 
its  contents,  she  recklessly  pulled  one  open, 
and  began  her  search  by  a  slow,  careful  sur- 
vey. 

Dora  had  taken  very  few  things  with  her 
from  Les  Roches,  a  fact  which,  when  she  dis- 
covered it,  greatly  exasperated  her  mother. 
Linen,  smelling  sweetly  of  violet  powder,  now 
met  her  view  ;  she  closed  the  drawer  pettishly, 
and  tried  the  next.  This  held  collars  and 
sleeves,  and  a  silk  dress  carefully  folded. 
"  One,"  angrily  thought  Mrs.  Courtenay.  She 
was  closing  that  drawer  too,  when  a  little  cas- 


ket caught  her  eye.  Were  the  cards  in  that  ? 
It  had  no  lock,  and  Mrs.  Courtenay  opened  it 
rather  curiously.  She  saw  some  papers,  and 
recognizing  Paul's  writing,  she  put  them  back 
with  a  dim  eye  and  a  trembling  hand.  Her 
step-son  had  been  very  dear  to  Mrs.  Courte- 
nay. Another  paper,  which  she  had  taken  out 
at  the  same  time,  fell  on  the  floor.  She  picked 
it  up.  It  was  an  envelope,  on  which  Dora's 
hand  had  written,  "  The  first  and  the  last." 

The  first  and  the  last !  What  could  that 
mean  ?  The  envelope  was  not  sealed,  but  it 
was  worn,  as  if  it  had  been  used  often.  Mrs. 
Courtenay  did  not  ask  herself  what  right  she 
had  to  pry  into  her  daughter's  secrets,  she 
took  out  the  two  papers  which  the  envelope 
held,  and  she  read  them  both.  One  was  a 
note  which  Mr.  Templemore  had  written  to 
Dora  as  Doctor  Richard,  the  other  one  was 
that  which  intimated  her  mother's  banish- 
ment. One  was  Hope,  as  she  had  first  come 
to  a  dreaming  girl;  the  other  was  Reality, 
as  she  had  visited  a  sorrowful  woman.  And 
both,  though  Mrs.  Courtenay  knew  it  not, 
had  been  read  daily  by  Dora  since  she  left 
Les  Roches.  Daily  she  had  gone  back  with 
one  to  the  exquisite  visions  of  the  past,  and 
daily,  too,  she  had  been  led  by  the  other 
down  to  the  unutterable  bitterness  of  the 
present. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  remained  with  the  paper  m 
her  hand  till  she  could  not  see  it  for  tears. 
Then,  meek  and  subdued  in  spirit  as  in  bear- 
ing, she  put  it  back,  and  went  down-stairs. 
But  neither  with  the  old  nor  with  a  fresh  pack 
of  cards  did  Mrs.  Courtenay  question  fate  un- 
der the  guise  of  a  patience.  She  sat  in  her 
chair,  crying  silently,  and  now  and  then  say- 
ing, in  a  low,  broken  voice,  "  It  was  for  my 
sake,  my  poor  Dora !     It  was  all  for  me ! " 


SAINT   OUEN. 


279 


CHAPTER    LII. 

Mr.  Ryan's  advice  concerning  the  shares  in 
the  Redmore  Mines  had  been  to  sell  out  whilst 
they  were  .at  a  premium,  and  Dora  had  gone  to 
Paris  for  that  purpose.  The  money  had  been 
placed  in  Mrs.  Courtenay's  name  at  a  banker's 
in  Rouen,  and  her  daughter  had  therefore  but 
to  go  and  present  a  check  to  be  paid.  The 
transaction  in  itself  could  not  betray  her.  Not 
that  she  cared  for  concealment ;  she  neither 
sought  nor  shunned  detection,  but  let  events 
take  their  course  recklessly.  She  saw  no  one 
whom  she  knew  on  her  Avay  to  Rouen,  and  no 
one  saw  her ;  besides,  her  crape  veil  was  thick, 
and  protected  her  from  the  careless  observa- 
tion of  strangers.  But  the  check  which  Mrs. 
Courtenay  had  given  her  failed  in  some  re- 
quirement, and  the  French  clerk  hesitated,  and 
would  not  cash  it.  Seeing  Dora's  annoyance, 
he  referred  the  matter  to  the  head  of  the  estab- 
lishment ;  but  he  was  out  for  an  hour — would 
Dora  call  again  ?  She  said  she  would,  and  left 
the  house  to  wander  about  the  streets  of  that 
city  in  which  she  no  longer  had  a  home.  She 
shunned  Notre  Dame  and  its  vicinity,  and  went 
toward  Saint  Ouen.  She  entered  the  little 
garden  around  the  church,  and  sat  there  to 
rest,  and  as  she  sat  she  thought:  "We  must 
not  stay  here.  Why  should  we  ?  He  has  for- 
gotten me.  I  must  abide  by  my  fate,  and  re- 
member that,  such  as  it  is,  I  have  chosen  it. 
We  must  go  back  to  Ireland  and  live  there. 
He  has  forgotten  and  put  me  by !  I  shall  let 
him  feel  and  know  that  if  I  gave  my  love  un- 
sought, I,  too,  can  conquer,  and,  if  need  be, 
pluck  it  out,  and  yet  live  on." 

She  could  do  it,  but  it  was  hard.  Besides, 
Dora  had  not  expected  this.  Few  women  seem 
to  understand  that  love,  even  strong  vehement 
love,  is  but  one  of  the  many  features  in  a  man's 
life.  And  Mr.  Templemove  had  so  many  things 
to  think  of!  He  had  his  child,  he  had  his 
poor,   his   studies,  and  his  articles  of'vertu. 


Passionately  though  he  had  loved  Dora,  that 
passion  could  never  have  absorbed  him  for 
more  than  a  time.  He  had  not,  indeed,  borne 
his  wife's  flight  with  the  scornful  indifference 
she  attributed  to  him ;  his  search  had  been 
keen,  his  grief  had  been  great,  but  perhaps  he 
had  given  up  the  one  in  despair,  and  perhaps 
there  was  a  weary  lull  in  the  other ;  for  though 
she  was  so  near  him  he  had  failed  to  find  her. 
"  He  scorns  me,"  thought  Dora,  with  a  full 
heart.  "  Well,  I  do  not  scorn  him,  but  I,  too, 
can  be  proud  !  " 

But  pride  is  a  cold  comforter,  and  Dora  felt 
it.  She  felt,  too,  what  we  all  feel  at  some  hour 
of  our  life,  that  her  sorrow  was  too  much  for 
her. 

"  What  ails  me  ?  "  she  thought,  with  a  sort 
of  despair  ;  "  he  has  deserted  me,  allowed  me 
to  go  my  own  way,  what  ails  me,  that  I  cannot 
forget  him,  but  must  remember  and  suffer 
on?" 

What  ailed  her  ?  Alas  !  this  much  :  that 
life  was  impetuous  and  exacting,  that  love 
would  not  be  denied,  and  that  both  were  too 
strong  for  anger  or  pride.  Still  she  strove 
against  them.  If  she  were  not  his  wife,  if  he 
had  but  married  Florence,  she  thought  she 
would  not  care.  But  we  cannot  lie  to  our  own 
hearts.  From  the  depths  of  her  being  rose  a 
reply : 

"  Do  not  say  so  ;  you  know  that  it  is  better 
to  have  been  loved  a  few  days,  than  not  to  have 
been  loved  at  all.  You  know  that  it  would 
have  been  the  bitterness  of  death  to  have  seen 
him  married  to  Mrs.  Logan,  even  as  there  is 
something  of  the  sweetness  of  Paradise  in  being 
linked  to  him.  You  know  that  if  he  has 
wronged  you,  his  nature  is  too  great  and  too 
generous  not  to  do  you  justice  later — and  v/ill 
there  not  be  a  foretaste  of  heaven  in  your  for- 
giveness and  that  reunion  ?  Think  of  what 
his  repentance  will  be,  and  remember  these 
days  of  love  which  he  gave  you — few,  but  per- 
fect.     Can   anvthing  annihilate  them?      Are 


280 


DORA. 


they  not  a  portion  of  your  life,  the  truest  and 
the  best?  What  though  years  should  pass 
thus,  in  vaiu  hope  and  expectation  ?  A  mo- 
ment will  yet  come  that  shall  crown  all  your 
sorrow,  and  conquer  it,  a  time  when  you  too 
can  say  to  grief,  "  Where  is  thy  victory — where 
id  thy  sting  ?  " 

Her  eyes  were  dim  with  tears,  but  (hey  were 
tears  full  of  softness.  She  looked  around  her. 
The  perennial  charm  of  Eden  seemed  thrown 
over  the  dusty  garden.  The  noisy  children, 
the  servant-girls,  the  gloomy  mass  of  Saint 
Ouen,  all  vanished,  and  if  they  were  seen  it 
was  with  the  thought — 

"  We  will  come  here  and  study  Saint  Ouen, 
as  he  once  promised  me  in  Deenah  that  we 
should,  and  every  sorrow  and  every  vri'ong 
shall  be  buried  and  forgotten — and  it  will  be 
Paradise — Paradise  ! " 

Delicious  was  the  day-dream,  but  very  brief. 
Voices  talking  behind  her  roused  Dora.  She 
awoke  with  a  sigh,  but  yet  did  not  feel  all 
unhappy.  The  gates  of  Eden  were  only  just 
closed,  and  its  sweetness  lingered  around  her 
still. 

"Now,  where  are  they?"  said  a  sharp  ir- 
ritable voice,  a  woman's  in  English.  "  Gussy, 
come  here  directly." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  like  it,"  said  an- 
other voice,  feminine  too;  "how  many  weeks 
has  his  wife  been  dead  ?  " 

"  Not  merely  dead,  but  drowned.  It  was 
her  cousin,  that  stupid  Doctor  Luau,  who 
knew  her,"  says  Florence.  "  Gussy,  stay  here. 
Do  you  think  these  Grays  handsome?  " 

"  Ilabdsome !  they  have  not  got  a  nose 
among  them  all.  I  wish  they  would  not  stare 
so  at  Saint  Ouen.  I  do  think,  like  Florence, 
that  it  is  an  old  bore." 

"  How  could  she  make  up  her  mind  to  be 
a  third  wife  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  it  was  she  whom  he  was  to  have 
married,  you  know ;  only  he  committed  a 
mistake,  and  took  his  daughter's  governess 


to  church,  instead  of  poor  Flo. — I  shall  box 
your  ears,  Gussy  !  " 

They  now  came  forward,  and  stood  in  front 
of  Dora :  two  specimens  of  the  English  femi- 
nine traveller  and  sight-seer,  carrying  a  little 
stock  of  scandal  with  them,  as  the  ancient 
journeyer  carried  his  gods  wherever  he  went. 

"  And  is  he  married  yet  ?  "  asked  one  of 
the  pair. 

The  owner  of  Gussy  smiled,  and  whilst  that 
smile  passed  aci'oss  her  face,  Dora  felt  as  if 
her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  answered,  "  he  went  off 
suddenly  in  his  wild  way  a  few  days  back,  and 
p<ior  Flo  is  distracted.  Miss  Moore  took 
scarlatina,  and  the  child  took  it  from  her. 
She  thinks  he  went  for  the  diamonds." 

The  rest  of  the  party  joined  them  ;  they  all 
moved  on.  They  went  talking  and  laughing 
all  the  way,  and  leaving  a  wrecked  happiness 
behind  them  ! 

How  often  do  we  feel  this  in  life !  How 
often,  when  a  heavy  blow  comes,  do  we  think, 
"  Ah  !  the  rest  was  nothing !  This  was  the 
crowning  catastrophe,  the  shipwreck,  the  last 
cause  beyond  which  there  is  no  appeal."  If 
she  could  but  have  doubted — ^but  it  was  not 
in  her  power  to  do  so.  His  name  had  not 
been  mentioned,  nor  Mrs.  Logan's,  for  Flor- 
ence might  belong  to  any  one,  and  yet  a 
certainty,  against  which  she  could  not  strive, 
entered  her  very  soul  and  tortured  it.  He 
thought  her  dead,  how  or  why  mattered  not — 
he  thought  it.  There  lay  the  full  explana- 
tion of  his  silence.  Alas  !  she .  had  never 
thought  of  that.  She  had  imagined  that  the 
voluntary  forgetfulness  of  a  bitter  resentment 
weighed  upon  her.  She  had  not  thought  that 
the  cold  oblivion  of  the  grave  already  lay  be- 
tween her  and  her  husband.  He  had  for- 
given her,  she  was  sure  of  it  now — her  ima- 
ginary sins  were  buried  in  the  mercy  we  ex- 
tend to  the  dead.  She  was  no  more  his  wife, 
erring,  indeed,  but  warm  and  living — she  was 


THE   FALSE   EPITAPH. 


281 


that  something  impalpable  and  unseen,  against 
which  wc  can  cherish  no  resentment.  That 
thin  veil,  so  thin,  but  so  chill,  which  divides 
us  even  from  the  most  beloved,  had  spread 
between  her  and  him,  and  so  his  love  had 
returned — oh  !  what  wonder ! — to  the  fond, 
childish  Florence,  the  chosen  one  of  his  heart, 
and,  after  a  decent  time  given  for  mourning, 
they  would  marry  and  be  blest  at  last. 

This  fair  future  she  must  now  break.  A 
second  time  she  must  be  the  cause  of  Mr. 
Templemore's  grief.  Perhaps  this  thought 
overpowered  her — perhaps  the  consciousness 
that  her  death  had  been  welconaed  as  a  de- 
liverance was  too  much  for  her  fortitude.  She 
did  not  faint,  she  did  not  even  lose  conscious- 
ness, but  when  the  sense  of  reality  at  last 
came  back  to  her,  she  saw  that  a  silent  and 
wondering  crowd  had  gathered  around  her. 
She  looked  vacantly  at  a  woman's  face,  and 
saying,  in  a  cold,  monotonous  voice,  "  I  was 
unwell,  but  I  am  well  now,"  she  rose  and 
walked  away. 

As  fast  as  her  limbs  could  bear  her,  she 
walked  through  the  streets ;  with  the  eager- 
ness of  a  lover  going  to  a  trysting-place,  she 
hurried  to  meet  her  bitter  woe.  If  happiness 
has  its  fever,  so  has  sorrow — a  cruel  fever, 
which  drives  us  on  and  spares  not.  A  pre- 
sentiment, strong  as  a  certainty,  told  Dora 
that  she  would  find  the  confirmation  of  the 
fatal  tidings  she  had  heard  on  her  aunt's 
grave,  and  it  did  not  deceive  her.  Day  Avas 
declining  as  she  entered  the  cemetery.  She 
passed  through  the  Wooden  crosses,  and  stone 
and  marble  slabs,  till  she  reached  Mrs.  Luan's 
last  resting-place.  Yes,  there  it  was,  written 
beneath  Mrs  Luan's  name : 

|it  pcmoriam, 

DORA  COURTENAY. 

This  was  her  epitaph.  No  date  of  birth  or 
death,  for  one  was  shameful ;  no  record  of 
marriage,  for  it  had  been  ill-fated  ;  nothing 


but  that  name  which  was  hers  no  longer,  and 
yet  was  the  ouly  one  by  which  John  Luan 
would  remember  her.  For  it  was  he  who  had 
had  that  "Dora  Courtcnay"  inscribed — he, 
and  not  Mr.  Templemore,  who  had  outlived 
her  loss,  as  he  had  survived  that  of  Florence, 
and  had  gone  to  get  the  diamonds  for  his 
third  nuptials ! 

"  Surely  these  graves  ought  to  calm  me," 
thought  Dora,  looking  round  her  ;  "  surely  the 
dead,  who  sleep  here  so  soundly,  admonish 
me,  if  I  but  heard  them." 

But  the  dead  were  silent,  or  their  voices 
were  very  low,  for  when  Dora  left  them  they 
had  taught  her  nothing. 

Her  first  words,  when  she  entered  the  room 
where  her  mother  sat,  alone  a^d  sad,  were, 
"  How  cold  it  is  !  " 

"  How  pale  and  ill  you  look ! "  said  Mrs. 
Courtenay. 

"  Yes — it  is  so  cold,"  replied  Dora,  shivering. 

"  Dora ! "  exclaimed  her  mother,  rising, 
"  you  must  go  back  to  your  husband  !  " 

"  Go  back  to  him  !"  impetuously  exclaimed 
Dora. 

"  Yes,  you  must.  I  know  all.  I  know 
why  you  left  him — I  feel  sure  he  is  broken- 
hearted— " 

"  Broken-hearted  ! "  interrupted  Dora ;  "  do 
you  know  that  he  thinks  me  dead,  that  there 
is  a  talk  of  his  marrying  Mrs.  Logan,  and  that 
I  have  just  read  ray  own  name  inscribed  on 
poor  Aunt  Luan's  grave  ?  Yes,  weeds  are 
beginning  to  choke  the  flowers  John  set  there, 
I  suppose;  but  my  name  is  on  it,  and  Mr. 
Templemore  is  a  widower,  and  he  is  going  to 
marry  Mrs.  Logan." 

.  Mrs.  Courtenay  stared  confounded.  Nothing 
could  exceed  her  amazement  when  Dora  told 
her  all  she  knew,  unless  it  was  her  indigna- 
tion, when  her  daughter  added,  recklessly : 

"  Yes,  it  is  so  ;  and  yet,  mamma,  I  am  going 
back  to  day  to  Les  Pioches." 

"  You  are  going  to  leave  me ! "  cried  Mrs. 


282 


DORA. 


Courteuay,  and,  leaning  back  in  her  cbair,  she 
gazed  with  a  look  full  of  dismay  on  her 
daughter,  who  stood  before  her  very  pale,  but 
very  calm. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  replied  Dora,  with  a 
quivering  lip.  "  He  has  forgotten  me ;  he 
thinks  me  dead ;  he  is  going  to  marry  Mrs. 
Logan,  they  say ;  but,  for  all  that,  I  must  go. 
I  am  his  wife,  and  when  I  married  him  I  un- 
dertook to  be  the  mother  of  his  child.  If  he 
were  with  her,  I  should  write  and  merely  tell 
him  I  am  alive,  for,  you  see,  I  would  rather 
not  read  in  his  face  what  he  must  feel  on  see- 
ing me ;  but  I  cannot  help  myself  Eva  is 
left  to  the  care  of  servants,  or  to  that,  scarcely 
better,  of  Mrs.  Logan.  I  must  be  true  to  the 
child,  who  was  always  po  true  to  me  ! " 

"  Yes,  and  Mr.  Templemore  will  come  back 
and  keep  you !  "  querulously  said  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay. 

"  He  may  not  come  back  before  Eva  is 
well,"  replied  Dora ;  "  and  surely,"  she  added, 
very  sadly,  "  he  has  shown  no  wish  to  keep 
me,  mamma." 

"But  I  say  that  he  will  keep  you,"  persisted 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  who  was  now  in  tears,  "  and 
then  what  is  to  become  of  me  ?  " 

Dora  knelt  before  her  mother,  and,  clasping 
Mrs.  Courtenay's  waist,  she  looked  up  fondly 
in  her  face. 

"Xo  one  shall  keep  me  from  you,"  she 
said,  with  a  smile.  "  If  Mr.  Templemore  locks 
the  doors  I  shall  get  out  of  the  window.  And 
I  will  come  back — I  will  come  back  !  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  down  at  her  wist- 
fully, but  she  still  thought:  "I  know  he  will 
keep  Dora." 

Her  daughter  had  no  such  fear.  She  had 
never  felt  very  sure  of  her  husband's  affection, 
and  since  the  great  bitterness  which  had  divided 
them,  she  had  felt  that  his  love  was  gone  from 
her,  never  to  return.  There  was  pain,  there 
was  humiliation  in  the  thought  of  now  going 
back  to  his  house  ;  and  Dora  had  said  it  truly, 


she  did  it  for  the  child.  But  Mrs.  Courtenay 
thought,  as  she  saw  her  depart  :  "  She  is  still 
fond  of  him." 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

The  gravness  of  twilight  was  stealing  over 
the  road  when  Dora  reached  the  gates  of  Les 
Roches.  She  had  alighted  and  sent  away  the 
carriage  that  brought  her  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  house  ;  but  short  though  that  dis- 
tance was,  Dora  felt  as  if  her  hmbs  could 
scarcely  bear  her  thus  far,  and  she  had  to 
pause  and  recover  her  breath,  and  compose 
herself  before  she  went  in.  The  gates  were 
open  ;  the  porter  was  not  even  in  the  lodge. 
Xo  one  was  visible,  but,  looking  up,  Dora  saw 
lights  in  Eva's  room,  and  in  Miss  Moore's.  She 
went  up  the  flight  of  steps  and  entered  the 
house  without  meeting  any  one  ;  but  as  she 
reached  the  door  that  led  to  the  suite  of  rooms 
she  and  Eva  had  occupied  before  her  marriage, 
it  opened,  and  one  of  the  maids  came  out  with 
a  light  in  her  hand.  At  fii-st  the  girl  only  saw 
Dora's  figure  in  the  gloomy  passage. 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  she  asked,  sharply. 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  she  raised  her 
handle.  The  light  flashed  across  Dora's  pale 
face.  The  girl  saw  and  recognized  her  ;  for  a 
moment  terror  held  her  mute,  then,  uttering  a 
faint  scream,  she  dropped  the  candlestick  and 
fled  down  the  staircase.  Her  cry  roused 
Jacques,  who  was  in  the  room  she  had  just  left. 
He  came  out  as  Dora,  composedly  picking  up 
the  candlestick,  was  going  to  enter  her  old 
apartment.  Jacques'  nerves  were  naturally 
strong,  and  had  just  then  been  strengthened 
by  a  cordial  of  which  he  and  the  housemaid 
had  been  partaking  before  Dora's  unexpected 
appearance.  On  seeing  his  late  mistress  he 
looked  bewildered  and  confused,  and  uttered  a 
deep  "  Oh  1 "  but  when  Dora  addressed  him, 
and  said  calmly,  "  How  is  Miss  Eva  ?  "  Jacques 
was  able  to  reply,  though  still  with  a  wild  stare 


MRS.   TEMPLEMORE'S   RETURN. 


283 


at  this  dead  woman  who  had  so  unexpectedly 
come  back  to  life  : 

"  Mademoiselle  Eva  is  very  well — ^very  bad, 
I  mean." 

"  Is  she  conscious  ?  "  asked  Dora,  fearing 
lest  her  sudden  appearance  should  agitate  or 
over-alarm  the  child. 

Jacques  shook  his  head.  It  was  plain  that 
there  was  very  little  consciousness  to  be  ap- 
prehended from  Mr.  Templemoro's  little  daugh- 
ter. 

"  Take  that  light,"  said  Dora,  handing  it  to 
him  as  she  spoke.*  Her  other  hand  was  ex- 
tended toward  the  lock  of  Eva's  door  ;  but 
Jacques,  with  a  boldness  and  freedom  he  had 
never  shown  before,  stepped  in  front  of  her-, 
and  effectually  checked  her  entrance. 

"  Mademoiselle  must  excuse  me,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  I  think  mademoiselle  had  better  not  go 
in  now." 

The  blood  rushed  up  to  Dora's  face,  and 
dyed  it  crimson.  It  was  not  possible  that  her 
husband  had  given  orders  to  deny  her  to  his 
child.  Her  blush  and  her  silence  confirmed 
Jacques  in  his  suspicion. 

"  I  dare  say  that  mademoiselle  can  see  Made- 
moiselle Eva  to-morrow,"  he  continued  com- 


that  proclaimed  Dora  unwedded  ;  "  but  she  had 
better  not  see  her  now." 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Templemore  ?  "  asked  Dora. 

"  Monsieur  is  away,  and  that  is  just  it.  He 
left  no  orders  about  mademoiselle." 

This  time  Dora  understood  the  insult.  She 
reddened  again  with  mingled  indignation  and 
shame;  but  she  scorned  to  acknowledge  the 
taunt,  and  it  was  composedly  that  she  said : 

"The-master  of  the  house  has  no  need  to 
leave  orders  about  its  mistress,  Jacques.  Let 
me  pass ! " 

There  was  something  in  the  flash  of  her 
eye,  something  in  the  quiet  gesture  of  her 
hand,  which  Jacques,  accustomed  as  he  was 
to  obey  and  to  recognize  empire,  could  not 


disregard.  Yet  he  struggled  against  the  very 
feeling  that  made  him  step  aside  and  give  way 
to  Dora,  and  with  something  like  remonstra- 
tive  suUenness  in  his  tone,  he  said — 

"  Madame  Logan  is  there." 

Dora's  heart  sickened  within  her.  This 
was  her  welcome  home.  Mr.  Templemore's 
servants  insulted  her,  and  the  woman  he  loved 
had  forestalled  her,  and  taken  her  place  by 
her  husband's  child.  But  keen  though  the 
pang  was,  it  was  also  brief;  and  her  look  as 
it  fell  on  Jacques  said  so  expressively,  "  What 
about  it  ?  "  that  the  man  replied  in  a  tone  of 
excuse : 

"  I  thought  I  had  better  tell  madame." 

This  time  he  thought  it  better  to  drop  the 
oifensive  "  mademoiselle."  Without  further 
parley,  Dora  went  up  to  the  sick-room.  She 
opened  the  door  and  closed  it  again  so  noise- 
lessly, that  her  entrance  was  not  heard  by 
Mrs.  Logan.  A  look  showed  Dora  that  Flor- 
ence was  not  alone.  She  stood  at  some  little 
distance  from  Eva's  white  cot,  talking  to  no 
less  a  person  than  Doctor  Petit.  The  very 
man  whom  Mr.  Templemore  so  much  objected 
to  had  been  called  in  to  attend  on  his  sick 
child  1     The  light  of  a  night  lamp  fell  full  on 


posedly,  and  laying  a  slight  stress  on  the  wordr  Mrs.  Logan's  pretty  face,  and  showed  it  to  be 


full  of  concern.  She  raised  her  little  dark 
eyebrows,  and  gathered  her  rosy  lips  with  an 
assumption  of  grave  anxiety  which  might  be 
yielded  as  much  to  decorum  as  to  real  uneasi- 
ness. At  least,  even  in  that  moment  Dora 
thought  so. 

"  And  so  you  are  uneasy,  Doctor  Petit ! " 
she  said,  with  a  look  between  perplexity  and 
trouble ;  "  really  this  is  a  great  responsibility 
upon  me,  and  I  do  wish  that  poor  dear  Miss 
Moore  would  recover,  or  that  Mr.  Temple- 
more would  return.     Indeed,  I  wish  both." 

"  My  only  uneasiness  is  lest  my  orders 
should  not  be  attended  to,"  sententiously  said 
Doctor  Petit.  "  Let  my  orders  be  attended 
to,  and  I  answer  for  the  result." 


284 


DORA. 


"  Yes,  but  suppose  your  orders  should  not  ' 
be  attended  to ! "  pettishly  retorted  Florence  ; 
"I  cannot  be  everywhere,  can  I? — and  the  re- 
sponsibility is  all  the  same.     So  I  do  wish,  I 
do,  Mr.  Templemore  would  come  back  ! " 

As  she  uttered  the  words,  she  happened  to 
turn  round  slightly.  Dora  stood  before  her, 
silent  and  rather  pale,  but  with  all  the  signs 
of  life  about  her.  On  seeing  her,  Josephine 
had  uttered  a  cry  of  terror,  and  Jacques  had 
looked  bewildered  and  amazed ;  but  it  was 
blank  dismay  which  appeared  on  Mrs.  Logan's 
face  as  her  rival  thus  returned  from  the  grave  to 
confront  her.  She  stepped  back,  and  clutched 
the  doctor's  arm,  and  gasped  for  breath,  but 
she  could  not  speak.  Dora  looked  at  her 
with  sorrowful  severity.  She  knew  what  feel- 
ing had  brought  Florence  to  Eva's  sick-bed. 
It  was  not  love  for  the  child,  it  was  not  kind- 
ness or  pity — it  was  the  secret  hope  of  win- 
ning back  a  past  which  her  own  act  had  for- 
feited— of  conquering  anew  her  lost  lover,  and 
perhaps,  too,  the  master  of  Deenah  and  Les 
Roches. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  startle  you,  Mrs.  Logan," 
she  said,  with  much  composure.  "  I  believe 
a  rumor  of  my  death  has  been  spread,  and  I 
can  see  that  it  has  reached  you.  But,  as  you 
may  perceive,  I  am  not  dead,  but  living,  and 
on  learning  Eva's  illness,  I  came  at  once. — 
May  I  ask,  sir,"  she  said,  addressing  Doctor 
Petit  in  French,  "  what  you  think  of  the 
child's  state  ?  I  trust  you  are  not  uneasy  ?  " 
Doctor  Petit  did  not  answer  at  once.  Mrs. 
Logan's  agitation  had  struck  him  as  very 
singular ;  he  looked  at  her  for  some  clew  to 
guide  him,  but  she  had  sunk  down  on  a  chair 
pale  as  death,  and  her  emotion  was  unintel- 
ligible to  him ;  so,  looking  at  Dora,  he  said, 
point-blank : 

"May  I  know  whom  I  have  the  honor  of 
addressing  ?  " 

"  I  am  Mr.  Templemore's  wife,  and  Eva's 
step-mother,"  simply  replied  Dora. 


Doctor  Petit  bowed,  but  looked  more  sur- 
prised than  impressed — indeed,  if  Mrs.  Logan's 
silence  had  not  confirmed  Dora's  words,  he 
would  probably  have  looked  incredulous  ;  but 
as  no  denial  came  from  that  quarter,  he  was 
compelled  to  believe  this  stranger.  As  he 
had  heard,  however,  that  Mrs.  Templemore 
had  left  her  husband's  house  very  suddenly, 
and  as  he  had  no  sort  of  conception  of  the 
degree  ,of  authority  which  Mr.  Templemore 
would  yield  to  her,  were  he  to  come  back, 
there  was  just  a  touch  of  pohte  supercilious- 
ness in  his  reply : 

"  I  am  uneasy — slightly  so,  I  confess  it,  but 
still  I  am  uneasy.  Nevertheless,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Florence,  "  I  do  hope,  as  I  was 
telling  you,  madame,  that,  with  care  and 
attention  to  my  orders,  the  child  will  do." 

And  he  drew  on  his  gloves,  and  looked  for 
his  hat,  evidently  considering  Mrs.  Logan  as 
the  person  from  whom  he  drew  his  mandate, 
and  ignoring  Mr.  Templemore's  wife. 

Florence  now  roused  herself  from  the  stupor 
into  which  Dora's  appearance  had  thrown  her, 
and  scarcely  knowing,  perhaps,  what  she  was 
saying,  she  repeated  mechanically  her  previous 
words : 

*     "  It  is  such  a  responsibility.     I  do  wish,  I 
do,  that  Mr.  Templemore  would  come  back  !  " 

Dora  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
she  thought,  with  much  bitterness  : 

"  I  have  deserved  this.  On  the  day  when 
I  left  this  house  I  brought  all  this  on  myself; 
then  I  must  bear  it — I  must  bear  it ! "  So 
her  look  remained  calm,  and  the  tones  of  her 
voice  were  low  and  even  as  she  addressed 
Doctor  Petit,  and  said,  "  I  am  much  obliged 
to  you,  sir,  for  the  care  you  have  bestowed 
on  the  child,  and  I  hope  you  will  have  the 
kindness  to  continue  your  attendance." 

"  I  shall  call  again  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Doctor  Petit,  rather  more  graciously — 
"  indeed,  and  spite  the  great  distance,  I  have 
called  twice  daily,  as  madame  knows." 


AT   EVA'S   SICK-BED. 


285 


"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  Dora 
again ;  "  but  you  will  not  take  it  amiss,  I 
hope,  if'I  call  in  one  of  your  brethren,  Doctor 
Leroux,  who  usually  attends  on  Eva,  to  assist 
you." 

Doctor  Petit  looked  as  if  he  did  take  this 
very  much  amiss,  and  he  said,  rather  stiffly, 
that  he  would  have  no  objection  to  hold  a 
consultation  on  Eva's  case  with  Doctor  Leroux. 
"Though,"  be  added,  with  marked  emphasis, 
"  I  cannot  say  I  think  it  at  all  necessary." 

"  That  is  not  my  meaning,"  resumed  Dora  ; 
"  I  wish  Doctor  Leroux  to  conduct  this  case 
with  you.  And,  indeed,  on  my  way  here  I 
left  word  for  him  to  call." 

Doctor  Petit  looked  astounded. 

"Madame!"  he  said,  with  some  heat, 
"  this  is  inflicting  a  very  unnecessary  affront 
upon  mo.  You  must  know  that  I  can  con- 
sent to  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  your  pro- 
posal leaves  me  no  alternative  but  to  with- 
draw altogether." 

"  But  you  must  not  withdraw  !  "  cried  Flor- 
ence, turning  crimson,  and  wholly  forgetting 
how  painful  she  had  found  her  previous  state 
of  responsibility,  "  /  cannot  allow  it.  /  am 
answerable  to  Miss  Moore  for  the  child's  life." 

"  And  I  to  her  father,"  interrupted  Dora, 
with  a  slight  flush  on  her  pale  cheek. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Templemore,"  retorted  Flor- 
ence, speaking  very  fast,  "  you  will  acknowl- 
edge that  Eva  was  not  left  in  your  care." 

"  Was  she  left  in  yours,  Mrs.  Logan  ?  " 

"  She  was  left  to  the  care  of  Miss  Moore, 
and  all  I  have  done  has  been  done  with  Miss 
Moore's  wish  and  authority." 

She  spoke  triumphantly,  and  Dora  felt  the 
force  of  the  argument.  Eva  had  not  indeed 
been  left  in  her  care,  and  she  did  not  know 
but  her  husband  would  resent  her  interference, 
even  as  he  might  be  displeased  with  her 
return.  But  memory,  crossing  the  bitter 
chasm  that  now  divided  them,  showed  her  a 
face  full  of  concern.     To  that  she  trusted. 


"  I  acknowledge  Miss  Moore's  claims,"  she 
said,  answering  Mrs.  Logan,  "but  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore's  are  greater  still,  and  I  act  in  his 
name." 

Mrs.  Logan  was  going  to  reply,  for  having 
always  plenty  to  say,  and  being  troubled  with 
no  sense  of  dignity,  she  was  not  one  to  be 
easily  silenced ;  but  Doctor  Petit  interfered, 
and  with  a  quiet  wave  of  his  band,  said 
loftily : 

"  I  beg,  madame,  you  will  liave  the  good- 
ness to  say  no  more.  It  is  impossible,  after 
what  has  passed,  that  I  should  continue  to 
attend  on  this  unfortunate  child;  but,  in 
justice  to  myself,  I  must  say  this  :  she  is 
now  progressing  favorably  ;  if,  therefore,  any 
casualty  should  occur,  I  wish  it  to  be  well 
understood  that  the  blame  cannot  rest  upon 
me." 

He  moved  toward  the  door,  but  Florence 
attempted  to  detain  him. 

"I  cannot  allow  this,"  she  said,  "I  really 
cannot.  Miss  Moore  called  you  in,  she  is 
Eva's  aunt,  and  she  left  the  child  in  my  care, 
and  I  cannot  allow  this  !  " 

She  spoke  angrily  and  fast,  but  Dora  said 
not  a  word  to  detain  Doctor  Petit,  or  to  alter 
his  resolve,  and  if  be  had  the  misfortune  of 
being  a  very  bad  doctor,  he  was  neither  a 
servile  nor  a  mean  man. 

"  It  is  quite  useless,  madame,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing Florence ;  "  I  am  not  accustomed  to 
such  treatment,  and  will  not  tolerate  it.  Ma- 
dame, being  the  child's  step-mother,  no  doubt 
has  the  greatest  and  the  strongest  right  to 
dictate  on  this  matter ;  only  I  think  I  might 
have  been  treated  with  more  courtesy  ?  " 

"  I  me.ant  and  mean  no  discourtesy,"  here 
remarked  Dora,  "  but  knowing  what  my  hus- 
band's wish  would  be,  I  must  obey  it." 

"  I  wash  my  hands  of  the  result,"  said  Doc- 
tor Petit,  with  a  slight  sneer,  "  and  I  have  the 
honor  to  wish  you  a  good-evening." 

Florence  saw  him  to  the  door,  then  came 


286 


DORA. 


back,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  tears  of  anger 
and  mortification. 

"  Well,  Dora,"  she  said,  "  you  have  again 
prevailed  against  me  ;  but  if  this  child  dies, 
Mr.  Templemore  shall  know  that  you  came 
back  to  prevent  her  from  being  saved.  How 
dare  you  do  it  ? "  she  asked  impetuously, 
"  how  dare  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  And  how  dare  you  forget  that  the  child 
is  mine?"  asked  Dora,  with  a  quivering  hp. 
"On  the  day  he  married  me  he  gave  her  to 
me.  I  asked  him  fin-  her,  and  I  got  her.  He 
gave  himself  too  on  that  da}',  but  if  he  has 
withdrawn  one  gift,"  she  added,  in  a  failing 
voice,  "  as  I  dare  say  you  know,  Florence,  he 
has  not  yet  taken  back  the  other,"  she  said, 
pointing  to  the  little  low  bed.  "Besides,  I 
have  another  right.  You  had,  perhaps  you 
still  have,  the  father's  heart;  but  even  you 
must  confess  that  I  have  always  had  the  child's. 
And  now  pray  let  this  cease — let  there  be 
silence  and  peace  about  that  poor  little  sick- 
bed. Let  there  be  no  bitterness  between  us. 
The  two  men  whom  I  have  most  loved — my 
brother — my  husband,  have  preferred  you  to 
me.  Leave  me  the  child,  Florence — leave  me 
the  child.  But  for  my  aunt  and  you,  I  should 
be  Dora  Courtenay  still.  Ecmember  that,  and 
grudge  me  not  a  position  and  a  name  which 
have  cost  me  so  dear,  that  when  I  read  to-day 
my  own  epitaph  on  poor  Aunt  Luan's  grave,  I 
wished  it  were  true — I  wished  I  were  lying 
there  with  her,  away  from  all  the  bitterness 
which  made  me  leave  this  house,  and  which  I 
find  in  it  on  my  return.  Eemember  Paul, 
Florence — remember  him,  and  let  there  be 
peace  between  us." 

For  once  Mrs.  Logan  was  affected  ;  for  once 
Dora  had  found  the  way  to  her  heart.  Paul 
Courtonay's  name  brought  the  tears  to  her 
eyes.  She  had  not  loved  him  very  much  ;  but 
such  as  it  was,  this  love  of  her  youth  had  been 
the  only  disinterested  affection  of  her  life.  It 
had  not  stood  the  test  of  poverty,  but  money 


had  not  helped  its  birth.  And  Paul  Courtenay 
bad  loved  very  faithfully.  No  second  love  had 
effaced  her  image  there,  and  she  knew  it. 

"Poor  Paul!  "she  said,  taking  out  her 
handkerchief — "  poor  Paul !  I  was  very  sorry 
for  him,  and  it  made  Mr.  Logan  in  such  a  way 
with  me.  But  then  you  know,  Dora,  it  is  me" 
— Mrs.  Logan  did  not  care  much  for  grammar 
— "  and  not  you,  whom  Mr.  Templemore 
should  have  married.  You  will  acknowledge 
that,  I  am  sure." 

"She  never  liked  him  —  never,"  thought 
Dora,  looking  at  her  in  wonder,  "or  she  could 
not  stand  there  talking  so  to  me,  bis  wife." 

But  she  did  not  think  it  needful  to  answer 
Mrs.  Logan's  strange  remark.  She  had  sat 
down  by  Eva's  cot,  and  she  was  looking  at 
the  child.  Eva's  dark  eyes  glittered  with 
fever,  but  she  did  not  recognize  her  former  gov- 
erness. 

"  And  Iiow  you  can  take  the  frightful  re- 
sponsibility you  are  now  taking  with  Eva  is 
\nore  than  I  can  imagine,"  pettishly  resumed 
Florence  ;  "  besides,  you  really  have  behaved 
abominably  to  Doctor  Petit.  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain Mr.  Templemore  will  be  so  angry,"  she 
added,  raising  her  eyebrows,  to  give  her  words 
more  emphasis. 

Still  Dora  was  silent.  She  was  thinking 
what  a  difference  Nature  had  placed  between 
her  and  this  woman.  How  one  was  made  to 
float  down  the  stream  of  grief,  which  nearly 
submerged  the  other.  She  would  never  have 
let  her  husband  go,  if  it  broke  her  heart  that 
he  should  leave  her  ;  she  could  never  have  left 
his  house,  however  much  his  indifference  had 
stung  her.  If  her  folly  led  her  into  trouble, 
it  would  at  least  have  saved  her  from  such 
calamity  as  had  fallen  to  Dora's  lot. 

"  On  one  thing,  however,  lam  determined," 
resumed  Mrs.  Logan,  getting  angry  at  Dora's 
silence,  "  that  Miss  Moore  shall  have  the  medi- 
cal attendant  she  prefers,  and  that  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore shall  know  the  truth." 


EVA'S  RECOVERY  DOUBTFUL. 


287 


"  You  are  very  welcome,"  replied  Dora, 
with  such  evident  weariness  of  this  conversa- 
tion that  Mrs.  Logan  became  scarlet,  and  giving 
her  an  indignant  glance,  darted  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

The  door  had  scarcely  closed  on  Mrs.  Logan, 
when  Doctor  Leroux  was  announced,  and  shown 
in  by  Jacques.  Dora's  face  lit  on  seeing  him. 
It  was  a  relief  to  escape  from  the  bitter  thoughts 
Florence  had  left  after  her.  She  went  up  to 
him  and  said  eagerly : 

"  Eva  is  ill  again ;  but  Doctor  Petit,  who 
was  attending  upon  her — " 

"  Then  why  did  you  send  for  me  ?  "  sharply 
interrupted  Doctor  Leroux. 

"  Because  I  know  Mr.  Templemore  has  no 
faith  in  him,  and  every  faith  in  you ;  he  has 
left  me  affronted,  but  I  cannot  help  that ;  and 
where  the  child's  life  may  be  the  cost,  I  can- 
not mind  courtesy — nor  will  you,  I  tiust,  mind 
professional  etiquette." 

She  spoke  with  some  uneasiness,  but  it  was 
causeless.  Doctor  Leroux  was  a  rich  man,  and 
for  etiquette  of  any  kind  he  cared  naught.  His 
wealth  placed  him  above  the  suspicion  of  wish- 
ing to  secure  a  patient  by  unworthy  means ; 
and  as  he  entertained  a  profound  contempt  for 
Doctor  Petit's  skill,  and  a  high  respect  for  his 
own,  he  made  no  scruple  of  taking  a  patient 
from  him  in  the  hour  of  peril.  So  without 
further  parley  he  approached  Eva's  bed,  and 
looked  at  the  child.  Dora  ^ead  his  face  anx- 
iously, and  its  gravity  filled  her  with  concern. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said  at  length. 

"  Well,  it  will  be  a  miracle  if  we  save  her," 
replied  Doctor  Leroux,  with  some  bitterness ; 
and  mternally  he  added,  "  Petit's  mark  is  upon 
her." 

Fearful,  indeed,  is  this  power  over  life  which 
ihe  ignorant  and  unskilful  possess,  as  well  as 
the  learned  and  the  gifted,  all  the  more  fearful 


that  the  guilty  man  is  generally  unconscious 
of  his  guilt. 

Doctor  Petit,  whatever  may  be  his  name  or 
his  country — whether  he  command  a  ship,  a 
forlorn  hope,  a  company,  or  rule  by  a  sick-bed, 
is  our  greatest  enemy,  if  we  but  knew  it.  Ask 
the  soldiers  whose  bones  bleach  on  the  battle- 
field, the  sailors  who  have  gone  down  with  a 
despairing  cry,  the  men  and  women  whose 
homes  are  ruined,  the  mourners  whose  hearts 
are  broken  by  the  death  of  a  loved  one — ask 
them  how  they  have  fared  through  their  trust 
in  him,  and  be  warned.  The  thief,  the  mur- 
derer, even,  are  less  dangerous  than  the  man 
whose  claims  to  knowledge  you  cannot  control, 
and  whose  ignorance  you  can  only  learn  at 
your  bitter  cost. 

At  first  Dora  felt  stunned ;  but  rallying  at 
length,  she  said : 

"  It  is  impossible  !  You  cannot  mean  to  say 
that  the  child  must  die.  Doctor  Leroux  ?  " 

"  Not  that  she  must,  but  that  she  may,"  he 
repHed,  somewhat  shortly. 

Dora  looked  at  Eva.  It  was  not  and  it  could 
not  be  mother's  love  she  felt  for  that  poor 
little  sufferer,  and  therefore  hers  was  not  a 
mother's  bitter  agony.  But  the  knowledge 
that  this  little  creature,  motherless,  and  for  the 
time,  too,  fatherless,  was  dying,  pierced  her 
heart.  She  had  loved  the  child,  and  the  child, 
too,  had  loved  her.  Eva  had  been  a  tie  be- 
tween her  and  her  husband.  She  had  brought 
Dora  back  to  his  home  when  nothing  else,  it 
seemed  to  her,  could  have  done  it — and  now 
that  gentle  and  tender  bond  must  soon  be 
broken.  They  would  stand  apart  without  that 
loving  link,  and  they  could  not  even  meet  by 
Eva's  grave. 

"  He  would  not  believe  in  my  grief,"  thought 
Dora ;  "  and  he  shall  not  see  it  to  doubt  it. 
When  Eva  is  dead — if  she  must  die,  indeed — I 
shall  leave  this  house  again,  and  this  time  all 
will  be  surely  over  forever ! " 

But  must  the  child  die  ?    It  seemed  so  hard. 


288 


DORA. 


Doctor  Leroux  was  gone,  and  Dora  sat  by  Eva's 
cot,  holding  Eva's  little  wasted  hand  in  her 
own,  and  she  could  not  believe  it.  Oh !  if 
there  were  but  power  in  love  to  keep  those 
loved  beings  who  go  away  from  us  so  surely, 
whether  their  leavc-taldng  be  swift  or  slow ! 
"  Stay  with  mc,"  Dora  longed  to  say — "  stay 
with  me,  my  darfing !  I  never  can  tell  you  my 
trouble,  but  still  you  will  comfort  it.  There  is 
more  consolation  in  a  child's  loving  kiss  than 
in  all  men  and  women  can  say  to  prove  that 
one  ought  not  to  mourn.  Oh  !  if  I  could  but 
keep  you  ! — if  I  but  could  ! "  And  then  to 
think  that  this  tender  little  being  must  retdly 
die  and  be  put  in  the  cold  damp  earth,  there 
to  moulder  away,  with  all  its  beauty  prema- 
turely destroyed,  and  the  sweet  promises  of 
youth  forever  unfulfilled  !  The  thought  filled 
Dora's  heart  with  pity  as  well  as  with  sorrow. 
Every  caress  she  had  received  from  the  child — 
every  fond,  endearing  word  which  had  been  ex- 
changed between  them  in  those  hours  when 
Dora  was  no  longer  the  governess  and  Eva  the 
pupil,  came  back  and  inflicted  its  pang  upon 
her.  "  I  never  could  have  left  this  house  if 
she  had  been  in  it !  "  she  thought — "never  !  " 
Then  came  the  thought  of  what  it  would  be 
when  the  child  was  gone — how  empty,  how 
silent,  how  cold !  And  so  vivid  were  these 
images — so  pain.f"ully  real  did  imagination  make 
them — that  Dora  grasped  Eva's  hand  till  the 
child  opened  her  heavy  eyes  and  looked  won- 
deringly  at  her  step-mother.  She  hnd  no 
knowledge  of  death,  and  no  fear  of  the  de- 
stroyer. He  might  come  and  steal  her  away, 
and  she  would  yield  to  him  with  the  meek  un- 
consciousness of  her  years.  She  would  never 
suspect  or  know  that  there  was  a  power 
stronger  by  far  than  that  of  the  kind  hand 
which  now  held  hers. 

"  Cousin  Dora,"  she  said,  with  a  suddenness 
that  startled  Dora,  "when  is  Dr.  Petit  coming 
back  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  want  him  for,  Eva*  " 


"  I  don't  like  Doctor  Leroux." 

But  the  words  were  spoken  faintly,  and  she 
fell  back  into  her  old  languor. 

"The  very  child  is  against  me,"  thought 
Dora.  Her  heart  sickened  within  her  as,  re- 
membering the  strife  she  had  already  gone 
through,  she  foresaw  another  trial,  more  cruel 
still.  What  if,  seeing  matters  through  the 
bitterness  of  his  altered  feelings,  Mr.  Temple- 
more  should  lay  the  death  of  his  child  to  her 
door  ?  He  might  not  say  it,  indeed,  but  she 
would  read  it  in  his  eyes,  and  would  not  that 
be  hard  indeed  ?  "  Since  Doctor  Leroux  can- 
not promise  to  save  the  child,"  she  thought, 
"would  it  not  be  better  for  me  thnt  I  had 
never  come  here,  or  had  left  her  to  the  other 
man's  care?  He  said  he  could  save  her  ;  and 
who  knows — oh !  who  knows,  perhaps  he 
could ! — perhaps  it  is  true  I  am  killing  her ! " 

The  thought  was  so  exquisitely  painful,  that 
Dora  dropped  Eva's  hand  and  left  the  side  of 
the  little  cot.  She  went  to  the  window,  leaned 
against  the  glass-pane,  and  cried  as  if  her 
heart  would  break.  Two  thoughts  were  with 
her,  and  either  was  very  hard  to  bear.  One, 
that  there  was  little  or  no  hope  of  saving  Eva ; 
the  other,  that,  believing  her  to  be  dead,  Mrs. 
Logan  and  her  husband  had  indulged  in  hopes, 
felt  or  spoken — it  mattered  not — which  her 
return  must  needs  dispel. 

"  He  believes  me  to  be  dead,  and  be  will 
find  me  to  be  living,"  thought  Dora.  "  He 
hopes  to  marry  Florence,  and  he  will  learn 
that  he  is  still  bound  to  me.  I  am  the  bitter- 
ness and  the  clog  of  his  life.  The  dark  cloud, 
which  ever  comes  between  the  sun  of  happi- 
ness and  him ! "  As  this  secret  voice  spoke 
to  her  in  such  bitter  language,  Dora  asked 
herself,  with  something  like  passion,  why  she 
was  tried  so  cruelly.  Why  was  her  life  a 
double  burden — to  herself  first,  then  to  him  ? 
And  she  felt  so  strong,  so  free  from  disease, 
so  full  of  vitality !  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she 
could  live. forever.      "I  dare  say  I  shall  sur- 


A   TELEGRAM   FOR  MR.   TEMPLEMORE. 


289 


vive  them  both,"  she  thought ;  "  they  will  die, 
and  I  shall  live  on  into  dreary  old  age,  forgot- 
ten by  death,  as  I  have  been  forgotten  by 
love." 

Bitter,  indeed,  was  the  thought,  and  nothing 
came  to  soften  its  bitterness.  Eva  was  worse 
the  nest  morning,  and  Doctor  Petit  pronounced 
Miss  Moore  out  of  danger.  His  verdict,  in- 
deed, might  have  been  doubtful,  but  she  asked 
to  see  Dora,  and  her  appearance  fully  con- 
firmed her  medical  attendant's  asseition. 

"  Mrs.  Tcmplemore,"  said  Miss  Moore,  with 
some  energy,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  tam- 
pering so  with  my  niece?  —  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

Dora  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  looked 
from  the  sick  lady  in  her  bed  to  Florence,  who 
had  taken  out  her  handkerchief,  and  was 
weeping*  behind  it,  and  she  tried  to  say 
calmly : 

"I  did  all  for  the  best.  Miss  Moore — I 
followed,  as  I  believed,  Mr.  Templemore's 
wishes." 

■'  But  it  was  to  me  Mr.  Templemore  left  my 
niece,"  argued  Miss  Moore ;  "  and  you  take  ad- 
vantage of  me  and  my  illness  to  get  hold  of 
her.  Miss  Courtenay." 

"  Mrs.  Templemore,"  corrected  Dora. 

"  Yes,  I  know  you  are  his  wife,"  impatiently 
retorted  Miss  Moore;  "you  need  not  taunt 
me  with  it." 

"  I  mean  no  taunt.  Miss  Moore ;  but  it  is 
because  I  am  his  wife  that  I  have  a  right  over 
his  child." 

Miss  Moore  looked  helplessly  at  Mrs.  Logan, 
who  had  withdrawn  her  handkerchief,  and 
was  tapping  her  foot  impatiently.  Dora  read 
that  look  very  easily — it  meant,  "  I  have  done 
my  best,  you  see,  but  I  cannot  help  myself." 
Indeed,  Miss  Moore's  next  remark  was  to  that 
purpose. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Templemore,"  she  said,  "  I  am 

not  able  to  save  poor  Eva  from  you  and  that 

Doctor  Leroux  ;    but,  remember,"  she  added, 
19 


weeping,  "remember,  that  if  I  lose  my  sis- 
ter's child,  I  shall  hold  you  guilty." 

"  I  cannot  accept  that  guilt.  Miss  Moore ; 
life  and  death  are  not  in  my  power,  and  I  have 
still  hope  that  Eva  may  be  saved." 

Miss  Moore  tossed  restlessly  in  her  bed ; 
Mrs.  Logan  looked  indignant,  and,  after  a 
brief  pause,  Dora  withdrew  and  went  back  to 
Eva.  She  had  left  Josephine  with  the  child, 
and  she  found  the  girl  inclined  to  remain  and 
be  communicative,  especially  on  the  subject 
of  Fanny. 

"  Madame  may  believe  me,"  she  said,  confi- 
dently, "  but  I  never  believed  in  that  demoi- 
selle with  her  blue  eyes.  I  always  told  Jacques 
she  was  deceitful ;  and  when  she  came  back 
and  said  Madame  Courtenay  was  dead,  and 
took  away  all  madame's  letters  and  things,  I 
said  to  Jacques,  '  I  do  not  like  that ;  and  I  do 
not  believe  madame  sent  that  Mademoiselle 
Fanny  l)ack.'  Jacques  will  not  grant  it  now, 
but  I  said  it ;  and  I  never  believed  madame 
was  really  dead,  for,  you  see,  monsieur  never 
went  into  mourning,  nor  never  said  a  word. 
Only  Madame  Logan's  maid  said  it  to  Jacques, 
who  told  me ;  but  no  one  told  monsieur,  who 
went  about  looking  so  grave  and  so  stern ; 
but  servants  must  be  careful,  as  madame 
knows,  and  not  repeat  every  word  they  hear. 
And  I  have  always  been  discreet,"  continued 
Josephine,  adding,  with  an  abrupt  transition, 
"  I  can  make  dresses  too,  and  trim  caps  quite 
prettily.  Mademoiselle  Fanny  took  many  a 
hint  from  me.  For  being  English,  you  know, 
she  had  not  the  right. knack  which  we  French 
have." 

"  Josephine  wants  to  be  my  maid,"  thought 
Dora,  with  a  sigh;  "poor  girl,  she  does  not 
know  my  reign  is  over.  I  am  still  queen,  of 
course,  but  where  is  my  kingdom  ?  And  who 
and  what  shall  I  be  in  this  house  if  poor  little 
Eva  dies  ?  " 

"  She  is  thinking  over  it,"  conjectured  Jose- 
phine, watching  Dora's  pensive  face ;  "  I  did 


290 


DOHA. 


well  to  tell  her  about  trimming  caps.  Madame 
Courtenay  always  was  particular  about  her 
caps." 

And  Dora,  whose  thoughts  were  far  away, 
saw  a  sad  image  of  herself  going  back  alone 
to  the  poor  house  where  Mrs.  Courtenay  was 
waiting;  whilst  Eva  slept  in  her  little  grave, 
and  Mr.  Templemore  brooded  over  his  grief  in 
Les  Eoches. 


CHAPTEE    LV. 

The  concierge  in  the  Hotel  Rue  de  Rivoli 
was  leaning  back  in  his  chair,  and  looking  pen- 
sively at  a  telegram  which  lay  on  the  table  be- 
fore him.  It  had  been  lying  there  seven  days, 
and  had  not  been  claimed  as  yet  by  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore. Was  this  a  second  edition  of  that 
gentleman's  mysterious  disappearance?  .  The 
concierge  thought  so,  and  was  rounding  off  a 
period,  when  again  Mr.  Templemore  spoiled 
bis  story  by  suddenly  coming  forward.  A 
clew  to  the  truth  which  he  had  not  ceased  to 
seek  had  taken  him  suddenly  from  Les  Eoches 
to  a  place  beyond  Paris,  but  it  had  proved 
vain,  and  he  was  coming  to  the  Hotel  to  spend 
the  night  there  on  his  way  home,  when  the 
concierge,  recognizing  him,  rose,  and  said  with 
much  alacrity : 

"  We  were  afraid  something  had  happened 
to  monsieur.  This  dispatch  has  been  lying 
here  for  monsieur  no  less  than  seven  days." 

Mr.  Tcmplcniorc's  color  fled  as  he  heard 
him.  Who  could  send  a  dispatch  to  this 
place,  save  Miss  Moore,  and  what  could  she 
send  it  for  but  to  give  evil  tidings  of  Eva  ? 
He  tore  the  paper  open  with  a  trembling  hand ; 
but  his  heart  sickened  as  ho  read  it.  The 
telegram  was  sent  by  Doctor  Petit,  and  that 
gentleman  informed  him  that  Miss  Moore  and 
ber  niece  were  both  ill  of  scarlatina ;  that  he, 
Doctor  Petit,  was  attending  upon  them,  and 
that  though  there  was  danger,  he  hoped  to  get 
theiu  through. 


Mr.  Templemore  stood  with  the  paper  in 
his  hand,  stunned  with  a  grief  so  unexpected. 
That  Eva  should  be  ill  was  ever  possible,  but 
that  she  should  fall  into  the  hands  he  most 
dreaded  had  always  seemed  out  of  the  ques- 
tion ;  and  now  this  dreadful  evil  had  come  to 
pass,  and  for  seven  days  his  child  had  been  in 
the  power  of  Doctor  Petit.  All  might  be  well, 
or  all  might  be  over  by  this.  Mr.  Temple- 
more asked  for  a  railway  guide.  The  last 
train  left  for  Rouen  at  seven,  and  it  was  half- 
past  six  now.  There  was  no  time  to  send  a 
telegram  to  Les  Roches  and  receive  the  an- 
swer before  the  departure  of  the  train.  He 
must  go  at  once,  go  with  the  agony  of  that 
doubt  upon  him,  or  Avait  till  the  following 
day  to  save  Eva  from  Doctor  Petit's  I'uthless 
haTids  ! 

Within  ten  minutes  to  seven  Mr.  Temple- 
more was  in  the  waiting-room  of  the  Havre 
station,  and  whilst  his  eager  eyes  sought  the 
hand  of  the  railway  clock,  and  his  heart  sick- 
ened with  impatience,  very  bitter  were  Mr. 
Templemore's  thoughts.  Yes,  all  might  be 
over  now.  Eva  might  be  dead  by  this.  The 
disease  which  he  had  dreaded  most  of  all  for 
her  might  have  robbed  him  of  his  last  child, 
as  it  had  of  her  two  little  sisters.  The  enemy 
had  come  while  he  was  away  seeking  for  one 
who  had  all  but  replaced  his  child  in  his 
heart.  "  If  I  had  been  with  Eve  I  should  at 
least  have  saved  her  from  Petit,"  he  thought. 
'^Oh  !  Dora !  Dora  !  must  you  cost  me  so  dear 
as  this  ?  " 

There  was  a  double  agony  in  the  feeling. 
Then  swiftly  other  thoughts  rushed  through 
his  mind.  The  mother  whom  he  had  given  to 
his  little  girl  had  proveil  faithless.  Alas ! 
they  had  both  been  faithless,  father  and 
adopted  mother  too.  Love  and  wrath  had 
l)ecn  fatal  alike  to  Eva,  and  the  innocent 
child's  life  must  pay  for  a  passion  of  which 
childhood  has  no  conception. 

Only  a  few  people  were  waiting  ibr  the  ex- 


THE   RAILWAY   JOURNEY. 


291 


press-train,  but  amongst  them  was  a  young 
English  matron  with  children,  a  nursery-maid, 
and  a  whole  array  of  small  baskets,  and  toys, 
and  worrying  parcels.  Mr.  Templemore  walked 
to  the  other  end  of  the  waiting-room,  in  order 
not  to  see  this  happy  group.  That  woman 
had  four  children,  and  he,  who  had  but  one, 
might  soon  be  childless.  There  would  be  joy 
in  her  home  for  many  years,  while  his  might 
be  hushed  and  silent.  He  was  not  envious, 
he  wished  her  no  evil,  but  he  could  not  look 
on  her  happiness.  The  sight  was  one,  how- 
ever, which  he  could  not  escape.  One  of  the 
children,  a  little  girl,  ran  past  hira,  to  jump 
into  the  arms  of  a  gentleman,  who  kissed  her 
and  joined  the  group.  He  was  evidently  the 
father  and  husband.  "  Why  did  I  not  meet 
Dora  years  ago  ?  "  thought  Mr.  Templemore, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart.  "  She  would 
have  been  Eva's  mother,  and  all  would  have 
been  well.  There  never  could  have  been  un- 
kindness  between  us  with  such  a  tie.  And 
Dora  would  never  have  left  her  child's  home 
as  she  left  her  husband's — never ! " 

These  travellers  made  themselves  at  home, 
English  fashion,  and  spoke  loud  and  freely 
together.  Tiny — such  was  the  little  girl's 
name — made  daring  attempts  on  one  of  the 
baskets  holding  biscuits.  The  nurse  scolded, 
but  Tiny,  defiant  sinner,  only  laughed,  and 
throning  back  her  golden  curls,  got  up  on  her 
smiling  mother's  knee  and  hugged  her.  The 
child  was  young  and  fair,  wholly  unlike  the 
dark-eyed  Eva ;  but  many  a  time  Mr.  Temple- 
more had  seen  his  little  daughter  thus  in 
Dora's  arms,  caressing  and  fond,  and  now, 
looking  at  this  strange  mother  and  child,  he 
also  remembered  something  that  had  occurred 
during  his  hurried  journey  from  Deenah  to 
Les  Roches  with  Dora.  Conquered  by  fatigue, 
he  had  fallen  asleep  one  night  in  the  railway 
carriage.  When  he  woke  in  the  gray  morn- 
ing Dora  was  sleeping  too,  and  he  found  that, 
unconsciously,  he  had  laid  his  head  upon  her 


shoulder.  Then,  as  the  carriage  still  moved 
on,  and  he  saw  the  deep  purple  plains  in  the 
faint  light  of  dawn,  the  thought  came  to  him 
how  often  his  child's  innocent  head  had  rested 
where  his  now  lay,  and  how  often  again,  as  ho 
hoped,  he  should  see  her  clasped  to  that  kind 
heart.  It  had  been  one  of  his  troubles  to 
know  that  Eva  would  never  love  Florence,  and 
now  it  was  a  joy  to  feel  that  he  could  hold 
these  two,  Dora  and  the  child,  in  one  love, 
undivided.  He  gently  moved  away,  and  Dora 
awakening,  asked  what  was  the  next  station. 
He  told  her,  but  he  did  not  say  how  this  little 
incident  seemed  to  have  given  his  brief  mar- 
ried life  some  of  the  sweetness  which  only 
comes  with  years ;  and  how  this  girl,  who  had 
been  his  wife  but  a  fortnight,  was  already  to 
him  as  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Again  Mr.  Templemoi'e  felt  he  could  not 
look  on,  and  he  turned  his  head  away.  He 
could  not  help  Roving  Dora,  whatever  hap- 
pened ;  but  if  Eva  died,  grief,  remorse,  and  a 
child's  grave  would  be  between  him  and  Dora, 
ay,  even  though  she  never  left  his  side  again. 
Could  he  forget  that  if  he  had  not  been  within 
call  in  the  hour  of  danger,  she  was  the  cause ; 
could  he  forget  that  some  strange  woman,  and 
not  his  wife,  was  now  with  his  sick  and  dying 
child? 

At  last  the  wooden  barrier  was  opened,  and 
the  travellers  hastened  to  the  row  of  carriages 
with  the  loud  impatient  hissing  engine  at  the 
head.  Five  minutes  more  and  they  were  in 
motion,  first  panting,  then  flying  through  the 
country.  The  suburbs  melted  away  into  a 
green  landscape.  The  Seine  gleamed,  then 
disappeared,  then  came  again  to  sight,  villages 
were  seen,  then  towns,  then  fields  and  or- 
chards. Then  towns  once  more  in  the  autumn 
sunset,  and  still  they  went  on,  and  Mr.  Tem- 
plemore thought  they  would  never  reach  their 
go:d.  At  length  the  hills  which  surrounded 
Rouen  came  in  view,  then  the  spires  of  the  old 
Gothic  city  rose  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 


292 


DORA. 


and  Mr.  Templemore  felt  he  must  prepare  for 
the  -worst. 

There  were  two  ways  of  reaching  Les 
Eoches.  Mr.  Templemore  chose  the  shortest. 
A  carriage  took  him  up  a  steeper  path  than 
the  winding  road  which  led  to  the  chateau, 
and  being  imable  to  proceed  any  farther,  left 
him  within  fifty  yards  of  the  wooden  door  in 
the  boundary  wall.  Mr.  Templemore  paid  and 
dismissed  the  cabman  without  a  word.  The 
man  looked  after  him  cui'iously.  He  saw  hhn 
take  out  a  key,  and  heard  him  open  the  door 
and  enter,  locking  the  door  after  him. 

"  They  have  their  troubles  too,"  he  thought, 
making  his  horses  turn.  "  They  have  trees 
and  gardens,  and  houses,  but  they  have  their 
troubles  too." 

Swiftly,  yet  with  the  fear  of  death  at  his 
heart,  Mr.  Templemore  went  on  through  the 
dark  paths.  At  length  the  house  stood  before 
him.  It  looked  strangely  quiet  and  solemn. 
Xot  a  light  burned  in  the  windows,  not  one 
human  being  was  visible.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  waiting  for  some  token  of  life,  but 
none  came  from  that  silent  dwelling.  Sud- 
denly, and  as  Mr.  Templemore  was  walking 
quickly  through  the  flower-garden,  Jacques 
appeared  with  a  lantern  in  his  hand.  In  a 
moment  Mr.  Templemore  stood  by  the  man. 

"  Well !  "  he  said. 
•    He  could  utter  no  more.     His  lips  were 
parched  and  dry,  and  fever  sickened  his  very 
heart. 

Jacques  was  sUghtly  startled  at  his  master's 
unexpected  appearance,  and  there  was  just  a 
moment's  pause,  an  eternity  of  torment  and 
doubt,  ere  he  answered, 

"Mademoiselle  Eva  is  very  low." 

Mr.  Templemore  had  tried  to  prepare  him- 
self for  a  worse  reply  than  tliis,  but  by  the 
agony  it  gave  him  he  could  test  the  vanity  of 
all  such  preparation. 

"Doctor  Tctit  thought  she  was  getting  bet- 
ter," resumed  Jacques,  "  and  he  cured  Ma- 


demoiselle Moore  ;  but  that  was  in  the  begin- 
ning, and  Mademoiselle  Eva  is  not  so  well 
now." 

Mr.  Templemore  was  .  standing  perfectly 
still,  like  one  incapable  of  sense  or  motion ; 
but  his  eyes  flashed  when  he  heard  Doctor 
Petit's  fatal  name,  he  started,  as  if  that  name 
had  stung  him  back  from  torpor  into  life. 

"  Mj  God  !  "  he  cried,  "who  brought  that 
man — who  brought  him  ?  " 

There  was  something  so  desperate  in  his 
look  and  tone,  thai  Jacques  stepped  back,  and 
forgot  his  partisanship  for  Doctor  Petit,  which 
he  shared  with  the  whole  household,  in  per- 
sonal uneasiness.  So  hastily  evading  Mr. 
Templemore's  question,  he  answered  : 

"Doctor  Petit  cured  Mademoiselle  Moore, 
and  attended  Mademoiselle  Eva  at  first;  but 
Doctor  Leroux  has  the  care  of  her  now." 

"  When  has  he  been  ?  " 

"  He  left  five  minutes  ago." 

Mr.  Templemore  put  no  further  questions, 
but  walked  on.  The  fatal  thought,  "Petit 
has  murdered  her,  and  Leroux  himself  cannot 
save  her  —  I  have  come  too  late!"  rang 
through  him  again  and  again  like  a  knell.  He 
entered  the  house,  turned  into  the  school- 
room, thence  into  Dora's  sitting-room,  and 
went  up  the  private  staircase  which  led  to  the 
apartment  Eva .  had  once  shared  with  her 
governess. 

He  pushed  the  door  of  the  child's  room 
open  very  softly.  He  did  not  wish  her  to  be 
startled  by  his  sudden  appearance.  The  night 
lamp  shed  a  dull  faint  light  in  the  sick-room, 
a  low  wood  fire  smouldered  on  the  hearth,  but 
Mr.  Templemore  could  sec  Eva's  little  white 
cot  at  the  other  end  of  the  apartment.  He 
approached  it  gently.  A  calm,  regular  breath- 
ing told  him  the  child  was  sleeping.  He 
bent  over  her  very  cautiously.  Long,  keen, 
and  attentive  Avas  the  look.  Suddenly  Eva's 
eyes  opened.  Mr.  Templemore  remained  per- 
fectly  still.     She  looked  at  him  with  a  half 


RECONCILIATION. 


293 


wondering  gaze,  in  which  sleep  contended  ; 
then  her  lids  fluttered  and  fell,  her  eyes  closed, 
and  she  was  sleeping  soundly.  With  a  re- 
lieved sigh  Mr.  Tcmplemore  turned  away. 
Eva  was  saved,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  said,  half  aloud— "  thank 
God ! " 

He  walked  towards  the  fireplace,  then  stood 
still,  A  flickering  ray  of  the  firelight  shot  up 
from  the  hearth  ;  and  pale,  worn,  and  altered 
though  she  was,  'he  saw  and  knew  her.  This 
was  his  wife  who  stood  before  him  !  For  a 
moment  his  heart  seemed  to  cease  to  beat. 
For  a  moment  he  stood,  pale  as  death,  and  as 
silent.  For  a  moment  she,  too,  was  mute  and 
still,  looking  at  him  as  he  looked  at  her.  But 
she  had  been  expecting  him  days,  and  she  re- 
covered first.     She  raised  a  warning  hand. 

"  Do  not  waken  her,"  she  said  in  the  lowest 
whisper — but  low  though  it  was,  her  voice 
shook ;  "  she  is  saved — she  will  live  !  " 

Great  joys  come  to  us  like  great  sorrows. 
Mr.  Templemore  could  neither  move  nor  speak 
— he  felt  stunned.  He  had  got  them  both 
back — the  wife  and  the  child,  and  for  a  while 
he  could  only  look  at  his  lost  Dora's  face. 

"  My  wife ! — my  dear  wife !  "  he  said  at 
length. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms.  The  word  "  wife  " 
was  a  sesame.  No  term  of  endearment  had 
ever  sounded  half  so  sweet  as  this,  when  he 
had  spoken  it,  in  the  past ;  and  as  he  uttered 
it  now  her  whole  heart  seemed  to  go  forth  to 
meet  him.  "When  he  opened  his  arms  to  re- 
ceive her,  she  threw  hers  around  his  neck,  and 
all  was  forgiven  and  forgotten  forever  between 
these  two. 

"  Then  you  are  glad  I  am  not,  dead,"  she 
said,  smiling  through  her  happy  tears  ;  "  you 
never  had  that  cruel  '  Dora  Courtenay '  put 
on  poor  aunt's  grave? — you  never  wished  to 
marry  Mrs.  Logan?  You  need  not  tell  me  so. 
I  know  it — I  know  it !  " 

Yes,  this  was  truly  Dora — Dora  jealous  and 


fond,  and  Dora  joyous  and  light-hearted. 
Dora  who  had  fled  from  him  in  hasty  resent- 
ment, and  had  come  back  on  the  first  token 
of  the  child's  peril.  But  great  joy  is  incredu- 
lous. The  cruel  fear  of  Eva's  danger  was  but 
a  few  hours  old.  It  had  not  taken  upon  him 
the  hard  grasp  of  reality.  He  could  bid  it 
begone  like  an  evil  nightmare  ;  but  the  doubts, 
the  fears,  the  anguish  he  had  gone  through 
in  seeking  the  woman  whose  voice  he  heard, 
whose  hand  he  held,  all  came  back  to  him 
now,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Do  not  be  too  sure 
— you  may  be  dreaming,  and  when  you  waken 
she  may  be  gone." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it ! "  he  exclaimed  vehe- 
mently— "I  cannot  believe  I  have  got  you 
back  ! " 

"And  yet  I  am  no  ghost!"  she  answered 
joyously. 

Ah !  but  how  pale  and  worn  she  looked ! 
She  had  been  watching  many  nights,  surely? 

"  Four,"  she  answered  simply.  "  I  did  not 
dare  to  leave  Eva  for  fear  they  should  bring 
back  Doctor  Petit." 

"  You  brought  Leroux,  then  ?  " 

"  I  did.     I  had  a  hard  battle,  but  I  won." 

"  And  Petit  would  have  killed  her.  She  is 
now  your  child,  indeed  !  " 

There  are  some  sweet  drops  in  this  bitter 
cup  of  life,  as  the  poets  call  it. 

"  I  am  sure  of  him  now,"  thought  Dora — 
"  sure  forever." 

Eva  moved  slightly.    At  onee  Dora  was  by 

her  side;  but  Eva  was  only  drearping.     Dora 

raised  the  curtain  and  bent  over  the  sleeping 

child  to  make  sure  of  her  slumber ;  and  Mr. 

Templemore  looked  at  them  both,  and  never 

forgot  that  picture — the  poor  little  head  on 

its  white  pillow,  and  the  faithful,  tender  face 

above  it. 

t 

CHAPTER  LVI. 

Mr.  Templemore  had  sent  Dora  to  her  room 
to  rest  and  sleep,  and  Dora  had  obeyed  him. 


294 


DORA. 


It  was  sweet  to  go  and  rest  after  fatigue,  and 
to  sleep  after  watching,  and  sweeter  than  all 
to  know  she  was  doing  both  in  her  husband's 
house,  and  under  her  husband's  care. 

She  looked  around  her  with  a  delicious 
sense  of  home.  How  pleasant  to  sit  down  in 
that  large  arm-chair,  and  rest  a  while,  and 
think  of  her  husband,  surrounded  as  she  was 
with  tokens  of  her  husband's  aifection  !  How 
pleasant,  after  the  vexing  storms  of  the  past, 
to  rejoice  in  the  sweet  peace  of  the  present ! 
The  same  sense  of  repose  followed  her  when 
she  at  length  laid  her  head  on  her  pillow,  and 
composed  herself  to  sleep. 

"Adieu  to  care,"  she  thought.  "If  our 
love  has  survived  such  bitter  trials,  surely  we 
need  not  fear  for  it.  We  are  mortal,  and, 
therefore,  may  suffer  again,  for  we  cannot 
conquer  sickness  and  death ;  but  for  all  that, 
adieu  to  care  !  Now  I  can  fall  asleep  and  not 
dread  wakening.  And  to-morrow  I  can  waken, 
and  not  feel  in  my  heart,  '  Another  bitter  day 
lies  before  me.'  I  know  that  Eva  will  live — 
I  know  that  he  sits  with  her  thinking  of  me — 
I  know  that  the  delightful  days  are  all  coming 
back  like  spring  after  winter." 

Yes,  she  knew  it,  and  when  she  ceased  to 
know  it — when  Thought  folded  her  wings,  and 
a  gentle  torpor  crept  over  her — when  fatigue 
and  happiness  both  wrapped  her  in  a  delightful 
heaviness,  and  made  her  close  her  eyes — she 
felt  it  still.  It  was  the  last  consciousness  she 
carried  with  her  into  the  world  of  sleep — 
it  was  the  meaning  of  all  her  dreams,  and  her 
bright  welcome  when  she  woke. 

Whilst  Dora  slept,  Mr.  Templemore  sat  up 
and  watched  in  Eva's  room.  He  had  sat  down 
in  Dora's  vacant  <chair  by  the  fire-place,  and 
looking  at  the  red  embers,  he  threw  off  the 
weary  burden  of  the  past,  and  indulged  in 
some  bright  dreams.  But  suddenly  the  image 
of  Florence,  pale  and  reproachful — Florence, 
who  had  wronged  him,  but  whom  he  had 
abetted  too  willingly,  came  back  like  an  up- 


braiding. How  completely  he  had  given  up 
the  old  love,  and  how  eagerly  he  had  turned 
to  the  new !  Was  not  this  vehement  affection 
the  justification  of  Mrs.  Logan's  jealousy  ? 
"Yes,"  he  thought,  with  something  like 
remorse,  "  she  was  right  enough.  I  was 
always  too  fond  of  Dora.  I  always  gave  her 
too  much,  and  now  she  has  all,  and  she  has 
a  right  to  all.  The  folly  of  a  silly  woman  and 
the  guilt  of  a  mad  one  have  made  it  too  late 
for  repentance  or  regret.  Then  why  perplex 
myself  with  what  might  have  been,  but  never 
can  be  ? — why  grudge  myself  the  happiness 
of  what  it  is,  when  that '  is '  happens  to  be  a 
girl  I  love,  and  a  young  wife  like  Dora  ?  " 

Thus  spoke  Reason,  and  Conscience  lent 
her  a  very  willing  ear,  and  Remorse  retreated 
discomfited,  and  iu  some  disorder.  An  unex- 
pected all}',  moreover,  came  to  Reason's  aid, 
and  made  her  mistress  of  the  field. 

Dora  had  not  long  been  gone,  for  thought 
travels  fast,  when  the  door  through  which  she 
had  left  opened  gently.  Mr.  Templemore 
looked  quickly  roimd.  He  had  scarcely  time 
to  recognize  Miss  Moore's  square  figure,  when 
he  heard  her  lock  the  door,  and  take  out  the 
key ;  then,  crossing  the  room  swiftly,  she 
went  to  another  door  and  locked  that  too. 
He  stared  at  her  in  silent  amazement,  but  it 
was  plain  Miss  Moore  did  not  see  him.  She 
went  to  Eva's  bed,  peeped  cautiously  at  the 
child,  then  walked  away  on  tiptoe,  took  a 
large,  old-fashioned  arm-chair,  shook  the  cush- 
ion upon  it,  wheeled  it  to  Eva's  cot,  then 
sat  down,  with  a  gentle  sigh  of  relief,  took  off 
her  curls,  fumbled  in  her  pocket,  brought  out 
a  white-frilled  night-cap  and  put  it  on.  She 
was  tying  the  strings,  when,  to  her  mingled 
terror  and  confusion,  Mr.  Templemore  ap- 
peared before  her.  Miss  Moore  felt  petrified, 
and  so  she  did  not  scream ;  but  when  Mr. 
Templemore,  who  did  not  want  to  waken  the 
child, made  a  sign  that  she  was  to  rise,  Miss 
Moore  mechanically  obeyed,  and  found  strength 


MRS.   LOGAN'S  MARRIAGE. 


295 


to  do  so.  He  took  a  light,  and  she  followed 
him  to  the  neighboring  room. 

"  Miss  Moore,"  he  inquired,  when  they  were 
out  of  Eva's  hearing,  "  may  I  ask  the  meaning 
of  this?" 

"  I — I  want  to  sit  up  with  Eva,"  stammered 
Miss  Moore ;  "  I  thought  she  was  alone." 

"  What  made  you  think  so  ? — did  you  see 
my  wife  leave  ?  " 

"  Yes — -just  so.  I  saw  her  leave,  and  I 
came  to  sit  up  with  the  child." 

"  Miss  Moore,  why  did  you  lock  the  door  ?  " 

Miss  Moore  was  mute. 

"  It  is  not  possible,"  he  said,  rather  bitterly, 
"  that  you  meant  to  lock  out  my  wife  ?  " 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  was  Miss  Moore's  pite- 
ous reply. 

It  -was  plain  that  such  had  been  her  inten- 
tion ;  but  Mr.  Templemore  did  not  think  Miss 
Moore  capable  of  originating  so  rebellious  a 
scheme,  and  his  eyes  flashed  with  resentment, 
as  he  said : 

"  Who  advised  this  ?  Of  course  you  would 
never  have  done  it  ?  " 

Miss  Moore  turned  traitor  without  remorse. 
"  It  was  Mrs.  Logan,"  she  said. 

"  Mrs.  Logan  !  Good  Heavens  !  what  could 
be  her  motive  ?  What  could  make  her  wish 
to  insult  my  wife  in  her  own  house?  And, 
Miss  Moore,  how  could  you  abet  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  right  over  Eva,"  jealously  replied 
Miss  Moore ;  "  she  is  my  sister's  child  after  all, 
and  I  have  no  faith  in'  Doctor  Leroux;  and 
Doctor  Petit  cured  me,  Mr.  Templemore." 

Mr.  Templemore  felt  too  indignant  to  argue 
that  point ;  but  he  said  again  : 

"  But  Mrs.  Logan  has  no  right — how  dare 
she  meddle? — how  dare  she  advise  you  so. 
Miss  Moore  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  vexed  her  that  Mrs.  Temple- 
more should  be  alive,"  composedly  said  Miss 
Moore;  "you  see,  she  thought  that  you  were 
a  widower,  I  suppose,  when  she  came  to  mind 
Eva  and  me." 


Mr.  Templemore  heard  her  with  mingled 
anger  and  shame.  Not  a  shadow  of  remorse 
or  regret  could  remain  in  his  heart  after  this. 
"And  I  have  loved  this  small,  silly,  selfish 
creature,"  he  thought,  in  mute  indignation; 
"  this  ruthless  little  thing,  who  would  have 
sacrificed  my  child's  life  as  well  as  her  own 
pride  to  indulge  a  moment's  revenge  ! " 

He  could  not  speak  at  once,  so  bitter  were 
his  feelings  ;  and  that  bitterness  showed  itself 
in  the  first  words  he  uttered  : 

"  Miss  Moore,  Dora  must  never  know  this — 
never,  mind  you.  She  must  never  know  that 
this  insult  was  contemplated." 

Miss  Moore  was  quite  willing  to  vow  that 
she  would  never  tell  Mr.  Templemore's  wife 
the  little  plot  that  had  been  concocted  against 
her.  And  though  she  had  been  faithless  to 
Mrs.  Logan,  she  was  strictly  faithful  to  herself. 
Dora  never  did  know  it.  She  never  knew 
why,  when  her  husband  spoke  of  Florence, 
which  was  but  rarely,  he  spoke  of  her  with 
such  bitter  emphasis  and  such  resentful  looks. 
She  never  knew  why,  when  a  year  after  this, 
Mr.  Templemore  heard  of  Mrs.  Logan's  mar- 
riage with  a  learned  Judge,  he  uttered  so  seri- 
ous and  earnest  a  "poor  fellow  !  " 

"  But  you  might  have  been  that  '  poor  fel- 
low,'" gayly  said  Dora. 

"  Never,"  he  rather  sharply  answered.  "  I 
have  committed  some  mistakes,  but  they  have 
never  been  fatal  ones.  Either  reason  resumed 
her  sway  at  the  critical  moment,  or,"  he  added, 
smiling,  "  some  good  fairy  came  to  the  rescue 
when  all  seemed  lost.  So  you  see  that  I  never 
could  have  been  that '  poor  fellow ! '  " 

"  I  see," thought  Dora  ;  "there  is  something 
I  have  never  known  ;  but  I  am  not  Blue  Beard's 
wife — I  can  bear  it." 

But  all  this  was  yet  to  come.  When  Dora 
entered  Eva's  room  the  next  morning,  so  bright 
and  joyous  that  Mr.  Templemore  told  her  she 
looked  like  the  sunbeam  whom  the  alcliemist 
caught  and  imprisoned : 


296 


DOEA. 


"  Then  mind  you  lock  me  up,  or  I  shall 
escape,"  reiilied  Dora  ;  "  do  not  tiust  me — do 
not  trust  me." 

Alas!  Mrs.  Courtenay's  worst  presentiments 
■were  being  fulfilled.  Mr.  Templemore  wanted 
to  keep  her,  and  Dora  wanted  to  stay.  "  Yes," 
thought  Mrs.  Courtenay,  as  she  sat  alone  and 
sad,  and  looked  out  at  the  village  street,  "  I 
knew  how  it  would  be." 

This  time  Mrs.  Courtenay  was  not  frowning. 
Dora's  mother  was  weeping,  gently,  indeed,  not 
with  a  bitter  or  passionate  flow,  but  still  with 
sorrow  and  heartache.  Dora  bad  been  gone, 
oh  !  so  long,  and  she  was  not  returning.  She 
wrote  frequently,  almost  daily ;  but  she  did  not 
come  back.  Mrs.  Courtenay  knew  how  ill 
Eva  had  been,  and  how  well  she  was  getting. 
She  knew  that  Mr.  Templemore  had  come 
back,  and  tliat  Dora  was,  as  she  said,  happier 
than  ever ;  but  when  Dora  would  come  to  her, 
or  if  ever  she  would  come,  Mrs.  Courtenay  did 
not  know.  And  thus,  though  the  cards  lay 
before  her,  though  the  favorite  patience  of  hi^ 
majesty  Louis  XVIII.  had  come  out  beautiful- 
ly, Mrs.  Courtenay  was  gloomy,  and  indulged 
in  some  reflections  more  philosophic  than 
cheerful.  "  I  have  always  read  in  history," 
sadly  thought  the  poor  lady,  "  that  when  two 
contending  powers  made  peace,  it  was  at  the 
expense  of  a  third,  some  poor  little  weak  king- 
dom or  dukedom,  or  republic,  which  they 
either  divided  or  sacrificed  in  some  dreadful 
way  or  other.  And  that  is  how  Dora  and  Mr. 
Templemore  are  now  acting.  Of  course  I  can- 
not be  divided,  or  made  three  pieces  of,  like 
poor  Poland,  but  then  I  can  be  excluded  from 
the  confederation,  as  it  were,  and  told  to  mind 
my  own  business,  and  let  the  mighty  people 
settle  their  own  affairs.  Dora  is  a  good  daugh- 
ter, and  she  loves  me  very  dearly,  but  then  she 
is  crazy  about  her  husband,  and,  of  course,  he 
is  desperately  fond  of  her,  and  they  are  making 
a  new  honeymoon  of  it.  And,  of  course,  too, 
I  must  be  sacrificed.     I  always  thought  Doctor 


Richard  looked  like  a  jealous  man,  and  I  do 
believe  he  will  lock  her  up  rather  than  let  her 
be  out  of  his  sight.  And  if  he  does,  how  can 
she  help  herself,  poor  dear  ! " 

Yet  it  was  a  hard  case,  a  very  hard  case, 
but  it  was  of  a  piece  with  that  carrying  off  of 
the  Sabines  which  Mr.  Templemore  had  emu- 
lated on  his  wedding-day.  "It  began  then, 
and  it  is  ending  now,"  thought  the  poor  lady. 
"I  have  lost  my  Dora  !  " 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  sitting  in  the  parlor, 
looking  disconsolately  at  the  sunburnt  road 
through  the  green  screen  of  vine-leaves  which 
framed  her  window,  as  she  came  to  this  lam- 
entable conclusion.  The  cards  lay  before 
her,  and  a  red  glow  from  the  west  stole  in  and 
filled  the  plain  room  with  warmth  and  light, 
Mrs.  Courtenay  was  dazzled  as  well  as  miser- 
able, and  leaning  back  in  her  chair  with  a 
sigh,  she  closed  her  wearied  eyes  with  the 
dismal  reflection,  "  Where  is  the  use  of  look- 
ing?" 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  "  said  a  pleasant  voice, 
whicli  sounded  in  her  car.  Mrs.  Courtenay 
started  and  looked  round.  She  was  alone  in 
the  room.  "  I  am  here,"  said  the  voice  again ; 
and  this  time  Mrs.  Courtenay,  turning  in  the 
direction  whence  the  voice  came,  saw  Dora's 
bright  face  looking  at  her  laughingly  through 
the  vine-leaves.  "  You  have  been  crying," 
said  Dora,  putting  on  a  frown.  "  I  see  it.  I 
am  very  angry  ! " 

"  Don't !"  implore(f  Mrs.  Courtena)',  depre- 
caticgly. 

Dora  shook  her  head,  then  vanished.  The 
next  moment  she  was  in  the  room,  and  she 
stood  before  her  mother  with  a  grave  face 
and  a  threatening  forefinger. 

"  I  told  you  I  would  come  back,  but  you 
did  not  believe  it,  and  yet  here  I  am." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  admiringly  ; 
"  and  how  well  and  how  pretty  you  Iook,*Dora ! 
IIow  did  you  got  away  ?  "  she  asked,  as  Dora 
sat  down  by  her,  and  kissed  her  heartily. 


THE   EASTERN  SKETCHES. 


297 


"  Did  I  not  tell  you  I  would  got  out  through 
the  "window  ?  "  gayly  replied  Dora. 

"  Oh !  but  I  hope  you  did  not,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Courtenay  in  some  alarm.  "That  would 
never  do,  Dora.  Mr.  Templemore  would  not 
like  it." 

Dora  looked  a  little  defiant. 

'•  Why  did  he  lock  the  door  ?  "  she  a'sked. 

Mrs.  Courtenay  clasped  her  hands. 

"  And  did  he  lock  the  door  ?  "  she  cried. 
"Dora,  that  was  disgraceful;  but  you  should 
have  procured  another  key,  and  not  jumped 
out  of  the  window !  " 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Courtenay,  do  not  believe 
her,"  now  said  the  voice  of  Mr.  •Templemore, 
who  had  been  standmg  behind  her  chair  all  the 
time.  "  The  doors  of  Les  Roches  were  v.ide 
open,  but  Dora  was  so  unwilUng  to  come  that 
I  had  to  bring  her  to  you." 

"  That  is  pure  slander,  you  know,  mamma," 
composedly  said  Dora,  "  and  you  know  better." 

Mrs.  Courtenay  was  a  little  flurried  by  Mr. 
Templemore's  sudden  appearance,  but  she 
promptly  recovered,  and  her  first  words  were 
an  inquiry  after  Eva. 

"  Eva  is  very  well,  thank  you,  but  we  do 
not  leave  her  long  alone,  and  you  will  not  take 
it  unkindly,  my  dear  madame,  if  we  ask  you 
to  come  away  with  us — almost  at  once." 

He  spoke  with  his  old  kindness  and  cour- 
tesy. Mrs.  Courtenay  looked  at  him  and  at  her 
daughter,  and  her  lips  parted  to  say — 

"  Mr.  Templemore  you  did  not  want  me  in 
your  house,  and  I  w  ill  not  return  to  it,"  but 
for  Dora's  sake  she  was  mute.  "  They  shall 
never  guess  that  I  know  it — "  she  thought — 
"  never.  I,  too,  shall  have  my  secret  and  my 
burden,  but  my  dear  Dora  shall  be  happy — 
quite  happy — if  I  can  make  her  so  !  " 

"  r  shall  soon  be  ready,"  she  replied  meekly. 

"  Let  me  pack  up  for  you,"  gayly  said  Dora. 

She  rose  and  went  up-stairs,  and  her  first 
act  was  to  look  for,  and  burn  Mr.  Temple- 
more's letter.     As  it  shrivelled  up  before  her. 


she  smiled  triumphantly.  TIuis  all  bitter- 
ness, all  unkindness  would  perish  and  pass 
away  from  their  two  lives.  She  spon  came 
down  again. 

"  We  are  ready,"  she  siiid  to  her  husband. 

The  carriage  which  had  brought  them  from 
the  railway-station  was  at  the  door  waiting. 
Mrs.  Courtenay  allowed  her  daughter  to  put 
on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  without  a  word. 
Still  meek  and  silent  she  entered  the  carriage, 
and  she  scarcely  opened  her  lips  during  the 
journey  to  Les  Roches.  Dora  noticed  this, 
and  she  said  a  little  jealously  as  they  went  up 
the  stone  steps  that  led  to  the  house : 

"  Well,  are  you  not  pleased  to  be  home 
again?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  very  much  pleased,"  meekly 
replied  Mrs.  Courtenay  ;  but  night  had  set  in, 
and  it  was  well  that  Dora  did  not  see  her 
mother's  face.  Mrs.  Courtenay  said  she  was 
tired,  and  she  went  up  to  her  room. 

"  Mr.  Templemore  will  want  Dora  all  to 
himself,"  she  thought,  with  a  swelling  heart ; 
"  I  must  not  be  in  the  way." 

The  room  was  a  pleasant  room,  and  Mrs. 
Courtenay  looked  around  it  drearily.  She  felt 
chill,  and  she  had  asked  for  a  fire ;  but  though 
the  logs  burned  and  crackled  cheerfully  on 
the  hearth,  Mrs.  Courtenay  felt  miserable. 
These  two,  her  daughter  and  son-in-law,  were 
happy  below  without  her.  Yes,  remember- 
ing her  own  early-married  days,  she  could 
imagine  how  it  was  with  them.  During  the 
journey  home  Mr.  Templemore  had  alluded  to 
one  of  his  Eastern  wanderings,  and  to  some 
sketches  he  had  made  of  the  ruined  cities 
which  lie  beyond  the  Jordan  and  the  Sea  of 
Galilee. 

"  Why  did  you  never  show  them  to  me  ?  " 
asked  Dora  quickly 

And  Mr.  Templemore  had  answered — 

"  You  shall  see  them  this  evening." 

So  it  was  not  difficult  for  Mrs.  Courtenay  to 
imagine  how  these  two  were  now  engaged. 


298 


DOKA. 


She  could  hear  Mr.  Templemore's  voice  and 
Dora's  soft  laugh ;  and  she  could  see,  too, 
Dora's  wondering  bright  eyes  raised  to  her 
husband's  face,  and  his  smile  half  amused, 
half  fond,  for  he  was  very  fond  of  her  indeed, 
fonder  than  ever,  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
and  of  course  they  did  not  want,  they  did  not 
miss  her. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Luan,"  thought  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
with  a  sigh,  "if  I  had  her  still  I  should  not 
feel  so  dull  and  lonely."  A  little  rap  at  the 
door  here  roused  the  solitary  lady  from  her 
reflections.  "  I  wish  Mr.  Templemore's  ser- 
vants would  not  come  and  pester  me,"  crossly 
thought  Mrs.  Courtenay. 

The  little  rap  was  repeated,  the  door  opened, 
and  a  curly  head  peeped  in,  and  a  childish, 
treble  voice  said,  "  Please,  it's  only  me.  May 
I  come  in,  Mrs.  Courtenay  ?  " 

"  Come  in,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay, 
brightening  up  as  she  saw  Eva.  "  Well,  what 
is  it  ? — what  do  you  want  ?  "  she  added,  as 
the  child  came  forward. 

"I  came  to  see  you,"  replied  Eva,  half 
offended  at  this  welcome. 

"  Tliank  you,  my  dear,"'  soothingly  an- 
swered the  elder  lady ;  "  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you.     Sit  down." 

Eva  climbed  up  on  a  chair,  looked  at  the 
fire,  then  burst  out  with  the  angry  ejaculation : 

"  Papa  doesn't  mind  me  a  bit  since  Cousin 
Dora  came  back  !  " 

"My  dear,  you  must  not  say  Cousin  Dora 
now — " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  impatiently  interrupted 
Eva ;  "  but  one  can't  get  used  to  it  all  at 
once,  you  know." 

She  was  flushed,  and  looked  anything  but 
satisfied.  "  Dear,  dear,"  thought  Mrs.  Cour- 
tenay uneasily,  "  I  hope  the  child  is  not  going 
to  be  jealous  of  poor  Dora  !  " 

"Papa  is  showing  Cousin  Dora  all  his  beau- 
tiful sketches,"  continued  Eva,  warming  with 
the  sense  of  her  wrongs. 


"  My  love,  there  is  no  harm  in  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Courtenay,  trying  to  excuse  the  sinner, 

"  Oh !  no,"  replied  Eva,  "  but  when  Cousin 
Dora  wanted  to  take  me  on  her  knee  papa 
would  not  let  her.  So  I  came  up  to  you,  Mrs. 
Courtenay." 

It  was  plain  Eva  was  offended,  not  so  much 
with  Dora  as  with  her  father ;  and  it  was  plain, 
too,  that,  fond  as  he  was  of  his  little  daughter, 
Mr.  Tcmplemore  did  not  object  to  being  alone 
with  his  young  wife.  Yes,  matters  were  going 
on  below  pretty  much  as  Mrs.  Courtenay  had 
conjectured.  Mr.  Templemore  and  his  wife 
were  sitting  side  by  side  in  his  study,  bending 
over  a  large  portfolio.  Dora  looked  with  won- 
der at  a  graphic  sketch  of  a  deserted  city.  She 
saw  a  street  with  stone  houses,  and  on  a  rocky 
peak  a  lonely  temple  rising  against  the  sky. 
It  was  very  impressive,  but  it  was  melancholy. 
Mr.  Templemore  told  her  that  a  fox  scampered 
out  of  the  house  on  the  right  when  he  entered 
it,  and  that  two  jackals  had  made  their  lair  in 
the  temple  on  the  left. 

"  I  do  not  like  it,"  said  Dora  ;  "  I  cannot 
fancy  having  a  fox  in  this  room  when  we  are 
dead,  or  rabbits  instead  of  jackals,  which  the 
climate  does  not  allow,  about  the  place.  Do 
you,  Eva  ?  "     But  Eva' was  gone. 

"  You  would  not  let  me  take  her  on  my 
knee,"  remorsefully  said  Dora,  "  and  Eva  is 
affronted.  I  did  not  even  see  her  go.  Mamma 
told  me  so:  'You  will  want  no  one  when  you 
are  again  with  Mr.  Templemore.'  " 

Mr.  Templemore  was  vexed.  What  ailed 
his  mother-in-law  and  his  child  that  they  would 
not  let  him  enjoy  his  newly-found  happiness  ? 
Still  he  wanted  to  know  where  Eva  was,  and 
Dora  suggested  that  she  miglit  be  with  Mrs. 
Courtenay.  They  both  went  up-stairs  to  look. 
Eva  had  forgotten  to  shut  the  door  of  Mrs. 
Courtenay's  rgom.  A  broad  ray  of  light  shone 
out  on  the  landing,  and  guided  too  by  the  sound 
of  voices,  Mr.  Templemore  and  his  wife  peeped 
in  unseen. 


A  HAPPY  FAMILY. 


299 


Mrs.  Courtcnay  had  spread  out  the  cards  on 
the  table,  and  was  giving  Eva  a  lesson  in  the 
favorite  patience  of  his  majesty  Louis  Dix-huit. 
Eva,  perched  on  a  high  chair,  looked  on  in- 
tently, puckering  her  little  brown  face  into  an 
expression  of  the  utmost  gravity.  Suddenly 
she  clapped  her  hands  and  uttered  a  joyous 
cry  :  "  You  have  done  it !  " 

"I  have!"  said  Mrs.  Courtenay,  in  great 
glee — "  I  have  ! " 


"  Well,  dear  Dora,"  said  Mr.  Templemore, 
making  her  turn  away,  "  you  thought  we 
did  not  want  them  — pray  do  they  want 
us?" 

"  Perhaps  they  do,  and  perhaps  they  do 
not,"  saucily  replied  Dora ;  and  to  herself  she 
thought  with  a  bright,  happy  smile,  "  I  do  be- 
lieve we  are  all  going  to  be  so  happy  ! "  But 
happiness  is  silent,  not  spoken ;  and  not  one 
word  of  this  did  Dora  say. 


THE     END. 


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